Razorblade Smile
by Not Human
Summary: Two young women, both alike in dignity, stray in poor Gotham where we lay our scene. Jane - a golden girl, working for a White Knight, and Angie - shadowed and changed, stitching purple seams for a Clown Prince of Crime. This is Gotham at its darkest. TDK
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

**_Jane Believes in Harvey Dent_**

Gotham City had a white knight to lead it out of its darkest days; his name was Harvey Dent. He was tall, handsome, effortlessly smooth and flawlessly _good_. It was unflinching, the lightness that radiated from him, and it made the people around him want to be good too. Jane Savary couldn't want anything less of herself now that she knew him. Now that she worked for him, Jane wanted all the blackness from her past to stay there.

The morning sunlight was bright as she packed her leather case with the files she'd organized the night before; the sun was always bright when she was on her way to work, like a miracle. Some days she thought it was a miracle that she was able to get up, get dressed, and make it out the door into that big scary world at all. _Gotham. _The scariest place a nice girl like Jane could ask for.

She kissed her cat goodbye, locked her door, did all those little things a perfectly normal person does on their way to work. Jane took an absurd pride in doing things like that now, because after unlawful confinement in Arkham and being drugged by none other than the infamous Scarecrow, the little things became _everything. _Big things receded into the distance like mountains, heaving pillars of rock to be dealt with in the future. Not now. Now was for working, getting up every day. Looking into the mirror, trying to forget all the things those gray eyes have seen.

Jane saw them now, those gray eyes, looking back at her from the mirrored walls in the elevator at the DA's office. The girl reflected there looked like a stranger; nicely put-together, smartly dressed and groomed. For some reason, in the years since she'd awakened in Dr. Jonathan Crane's care, she hadn't been able to shake the vision of herself she'd seen in her reflection there: dull, bedraggled, tangled and erratic. Most days she still felt that way inside; as the doors slid open and another smartly dressed young woman stepped in, Jane forced her eyes out of their stupor, and pasted on a smile.

"Morning, Jane." Rachel Dawes was the epitome of Jane's eventual goal; a self-sufficient professional. She wondered if Rachel had anything in her past to rival her own stay at Arkham. It would be encouraging if she did, but Jane didn't have the nerve to ask.

"Morning," she answered.

"How are you?" Rachel always seemed sincerely interested in the answer; it made Jane wonder sometimes if she was supposed to recognize her from some time in her past. There were days that Rachel seemed like an awkwardly unrecognized old friend.

"I'm fine." Jane was usually at a loss for a more detailed answer, but it always seemed to satisfy Ms. Dawes.

"Good, glad to hear it. Hope you wore your flat shoes today," Rachel said. "Lots of unpacking to do."

The general mood in the office was still one of jubilant surprise, a week after Dent's win at the polls. Jane had worked on his campaign for a while now, and he'd rewarded her loyalty with a position as a clerical assistant; she was one of a few young people in the office. He was always very nice to her, just like Rachel. Jane felt at once grateful and patronized by the two of them, sometimes. More often – when she was aware of her current inability to function in traditional social interactions, for instance – she was just grateful. Every injured person wants to recover faster than they do, and every uninjured person is unsure of how to behave with them. In the big picture, having Harvey Dent as an employer and Rachel Dawes as a sort of friend was something to be happy about. And Jane Savary was. Happy.

She looked at her face in the reflective walls and wondered if she'd ever believe it herself; then the mirrors opened, and she and Rachel saw the fair-haired DA himself, smiling that heroic smile as he greeted them both. That umbrella of kindness between the three of them convinced her, at least for the rest of the day; this was what happy felt like.

* * *

**_Joker Loses his Suit_**

He couldn't believe she'd had the nerve to disappear.

Marie. Adlam. That tailor, that woman he'd entrusted his very image to. After several fittings and many days of reconstructive sewing – much to the woman's fucking _chagrin, _he thought – not only his order but her entire damn store had vanished. Now Harvey Dent was wearing _his _tailored gray boring three-piece and Bruce Wayne – lame and ineffectual as he was – had _his_ crap custom-made, while he – Joker eventually, once he got his bloody costume in order – was still stuck with department store black.

Marie Adlam had known him. Known his face. He had frightened her past the point of needing to disguise himself, and he'd been glad. She'd done as she was told. True, she'd been drunk the last couple times he'd seen her, but it somehow hadn't affected her work. She was a damn good tailor. He wondered why she'd go to the trouble of constructing such a piece of art, thus gaining his respect, and then throw it all away by pissing him off. The stores to either side of the vacant Adlam Tailoring Company didn't seem to know much either.

Bells jingled when he brushed through the door to the jewelry store, and they tightened his nerves until he heard trembling violin strings in his head. The girl behind the counter could see that, if he could judge by the look on her face. He was something of a monster, and he knew it. Even without makeup, he could intimidate.

"Adlam Tailoring," he said, no preamble. "Where the fuck is it?"

Her mouth opened and closed uselessly. He snorted, stepping forward, intending to do some harm. "I don't know," she managed finally. "Try the shoemaker, he might know! They worked together-"

"Tried him," he said, still moving toward her. "He didn't know either."

"The textile guy. For _sure." _Poor idiot was desperate to please this scarred stranger. Her momma should have introduced her to different folks when she was a kid, broaden her horizons. Now she was afraid of regular guys with marked-up faces, kind of _politically incorrect _these days. He realized what she'd said, stopped his steady stalking.

"Textile guy?" he asked. "Where's that?"

"End of the block," she gasped. Her relief was palpable. He thought of marking her just to teach her a lesson, like _don't show your relief too soon_, but he had stuff to do, textile guys to see. Rogue seamstresses to track down.

He gestured his satisfaction, wagging his finger at her, and smiling his special smile. She tried to return it; he gave her an A for effort. "Thanks," he said, retreating. She had a most amusing look of terror on her face, and he hadn't even done anything to her. _Just you wait 'til I'm through with this whole damn city,_ he thought. He had big plans. Plans he could execute once he got his missing suit.

_Try to hide from me, Marie. I'll find you. Count – on – it._

* * *

**_Angie Appears at a Funeral_**

The casket was open and the woman inside was impeccably dressed, even for a corpse. The cosmetics caked on her face didn't help to mask her true state; Marie Adlam was, inarguably, dead.

The rows of metal chairs were lined with business associates - shippers, suppliers, a few ex-employees. In the last years of her life, Marie had had to do away with most of her personnel. It wasn't meant as an affront to any of the workers she'd had to lay off. It was just failure. Tailoring could be a tough business to keep up in a city where ready-to-wear was the most economically effective way to dress; it didn't help that Gotham's wealthiest citizens were largely crooks and mob bosses. And Bruce Wayne. Before she died, Marie had assumed he'd had his suits made to order by a higher-profile tailor. It didn't make sense for one of the richest men in the world to get his attire from a small business like the Adlam Tailoring Company, despite the work she'd done for his father all those years ago.

Textile wholesalers, shoemakers. The ladies she'd played Bingo with every Wednesday and Sunday nights. People dressed in black, fanning themselves with the prayer cards in the funeral parlor's thick air. The room was populated with people Marie Adlam hadn't known very well, and one or two she had. Two men, each alone, sat far from each other in the rows closest to the doors. One of them appeared because of the vague memories of playing in the tailor's shop as a child; the other because of the recent business he had conducted with her. Neither, by some miracle, realized the other was there.

Despite the idle chatter between acquaintances throughout the room, there was that feeling of silence funeral viewings so often had; a slight sense of oppression, the urge to hush your conversation, keep your chair still, quiet your child. Into this stillness the sound of high heels on hard laminate cracked. It started down the hall, impossibly loud and fast for a funeral; short, staccato clacks approaching quickly, no hesitation as they reached the heavy wooden door and seemed to throw it open. Into the expectant room stepped a young woman. Long, flat brown hair, that kind of round face that never seemed to look happy. She wore a dress far too shapely for a funeral. _At least it's black_, certain patrons thought to themselves. Even after the years spent away from home, those business contacts from so long ago recognized her. Marie Adlam's only child; considering those five years she'd languished in various institutions, she looked surprisingly good.

Angel Adlam had come home.

* * *

_**Hey, thanks for reading the first chapter of my new Gotham story! This was an introductory chapter, and there will be more dialogue and action to come. If you like my style, please do read my other stories - you might want to check out Lucid Dreamer and Heart of Glass if you haven't already, just to see what Angel and Jane are all about. Feedback is appreciated! **_

**_Furthermore, I'd like to thank emptyvoices for her invaluable help in understanding both Angie and Jane, and Royalty09 for her offered help as a Beta. You'll both be hearing from me, don't you worry. I heartily recommend their work to anyone who enjoys mine. _**

_**There will be updatings soon!**_

**-nH**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Jonnie Recognizes an Old Friend

There was a dank little basement somewhere in the Narrows that he now called home, that Jonnie Crane. Once the youngest ever administrator of Arkham Asylum – once too the harbinger of nightmares and the cause of psychotic breaks among the perfectly sane – Jonathan Crane had enjoyed a fall from grace to rival Icarus. He had flown too close to divinity in trying to bring about an epidemic of terror in Gotham City, and he saw that error now – a bit too ambitious for a man still in his early thirties, perhaps. He had made a crucial miscalculation in trusting Ra's Al Ghul, and he had paid the price. Oh, what a price it had been.

He peeled back the hood that had helped to hide his face during Marie Adlam's funeral. A man in a black hooded jacket in mid-seventies heat had drawn a few stares, but it was worth avoiding the hassle of being recognized. He'd run from Arkham more than once for a reason; he didn't like living in captivity. Luckily, so long as no one could see his blue eyes he'd be safe from scrutiny. Blue eyes _this_ bright made people look closer, and when they looked closer they might start to wonder where they'd seen that face before; at the Laundromat? Grocery store? _On the news…? _

No, the event had passed without incident. Except – the appearance of that girl, that young woman, so unexpected. Thankfully, she didn't look in his direction herself. Angel Adlam; Dr. Crane's best, if not favorite, patient.

He'd known, somewhere inside, that the death of her mother would bring her home; it was half the reason he'd attended the funeral at all. Crane didn't like to think of himself as a man with personal attachments, but there were two patients in his past he was sure he'd never forget. One was the young woman at the funeral today.

Crane shuffled through his papers, the few files he'd taken with him when he'd left Arkham for good. He had men inside, of course, so he could always return if he found there was something he simply could not operate his weaponized drug business without, but these files were with him permanently. Angie, a girl of seventeen when they'd met, was tried for kidnapping as an adult and committed to Arkham with the completely emotionless blessing of her mother. That had hit the girl hard, but after a lifetime of appearances-first, questions-later, she had not been taken completely by surprise. Crane knew Marie hadn't visited her daughter once during her incarceration at Arkham; he could only imagine Angie had been alone in Vermont as well. He doubted her mother's absence was detrimental to her, though he was sure the woman had been missed; Marie was one of those women who damaged their daughters more than they parented them.

He'd only gone to her shop to see if she was real; he knew some parents didn't care for their children, but even he had never seen a woman abandon her daughter in such a crisis. She hadn't recognized him with his hazel contacts and dingy clothes, and as such he'd had an easy time contracting her services. He didn't really need a new suit – the one he'd escaped Arkham in had such a fearsomely apocalyptic quality that he simply couldn't do away with the effect it had on his business contacts – but he could afford one, and his curiosity led him to repeat fittings. She did good work, when she was sober. In her last days, Crane had seen her under the influence of the cooking sherry more often than not.

There it was, the profile photo of the girl with the tangled brown hair and the vivid amber eyes. Even at her worst, Angie's eyes could shine. He'd seen her bloodshot and devastated, and he'd seen her manic and obsessed; one thing she'd never been was _dull_. He had hoped to see her healthy and recovered, someday. Two minutes spent watching her incognito at her mother's viewing wasn't enough for him to know if that day was today.

Angel had a lot to recover from. He held the photo in his hand, wondering; he'd made a promise to get rid of her pain for good. Even if it wasn't welcome anymore, what kind of a doctor would break a promise like that?

Crane made a call on his cell; minutes later one of his men appeared at his door.

"I need you to keep an eye on someone," he said, handing him the photograph and some pertinent information. "Keep your distance. The last thing we need is to make her mad."

The man nodded, pocketing the picture. "Does it matter who she is?"

"Angel Adlam. Beyond that, it only matters that you know she is _not _to be touched." Crane smiled in his cold, doctor's way, and turned back to his desk. "I know you understand my meaning, George."

George nodded again and left without a word. Jonathan Crane went back to work as his burlap mask watched him from the hat rack in the cold, damp corner of his basement office. They were far from divinity now, indeed.

* * *

Harvey and Rachel Ponder Jane

As his morning reached a rare lull, Harvey Dent glanced out of his office door to see two of his favorite people chatting over coffee; it was friendly on one side, almost awkward on the other. Rachel liked Jane, admired her sense of survival after the horrors of Arkham. It had been Rachel who'd suggested that Harvey hire her full time, and indeed Rachel who had brought her to his attention in the first place. He knew Rachel's instincts were good, especially considering the things she and Jane had in common; he'd trusted her, and welcomed Jane to his team. He hadn't regretted the decision for a moment since.

Jane was a fighter, both literally and figuratively. It had been noted in her medical file that she'd trained in the martial arts before her attack and subsequent confinement at the asylum, and he and Rachel had encouraged her to take that up again. She was always on time to work, always friendly and thorough. He couldn't have asked for more in an office assistant, except maybe that she be more comfortable in her surroundings; nothing she could do about that, he knew. Recovery takes time.

As the ladies finished their talk, he waved Rachel over with a smile. She seemed in good spirits, which probably meant that Jane was continuing to open up, little by little. Jane busied herself with whatever task Rachel had interrupted; she worked with a half-smile, Harvey was glad to note.

"How's Jane today?" he said in greeting to Rachel. She sat in the chair across his desk as he closed the door.

"She seems well. I'm glad…her first couple weeks with us, it looked like she'd be bogged down by Arkham for years. Now I'm starting to think she'll be back to full power in no time."

"Ah, you know how that is," Harvey said conspiratorially, leaning on the edge of his desk. "You've been there."

Rachel turned to look at Jane, busily typing at her desk a few yards away. She knew more than glass separated the two of them from her. "Not exactly," she said. "At least I got to go home the same day Crane attacked me. He had his claws in Jane for weeks."

_They're still in there_, he thought. Weeks ago, there'd been some question of what crimes to charge Crane with in the eventuality that he was apprehended; at the casual mention of his name, Jane had paled considerably. After all he'd done to her…Jane was doing remarkably well, but a full recovery was still far, far away.

"Well," Harvey said, following her gaze, "she knows we're here for her, whatever she needs. Right?"

Rachel turned back to him with that sweet smile he knew so well. "Right. I really appreciate you taking her on, Harvey."

He waved the thanks off with a casual air. "Please, you know me. I'm all thumbs when it comes to office organization. Jane's been a godsend. This wasn't a pity hire."

"I know that. I also know the list of applicants was a mile long…but she's doing great, isn't she?"

"Fantastic. I wouldn't have this office staffed any other way." He rose, offering her an arm. "Lunch?"

"Harvey, we just got here." She had a tone that suggested the protest was mostly for show. "What kind of an example are you setting for your employees?"

"I need my employees well-fed and relaxed, so…a good one," he answered. "Should we invite the new girl?"

"She won't go. Give it time, Harvey. In a few months, we'll be having full-staff business lunches with her there every week." Rachel stood and took the offered arm. "She's got a future here, and she knows it."

"Good. If she ever starts to doubt it," he said, "just send her to me."

As they passed Jane's desk arm-in-arm, Harvey unexpectedly did ask her to join them; true to Rachel's prediction, she politely declined. He knew she would – Rachel's instincts were rarely off. The important thing was that she knew the invitation was there. From the warm squeeze on his arm as they entered the lift, he knew Rachel agreed.

* * *

All It Takes is an Obituary

Weeks passed – more like one week, actually, but to him it felt like an eternity – before he found out where Marie Effing Adlam was hiding her drunken self. When he came across the obituary, he laughed.

Of course. Knowing her – and the hilarious look of terror she got on her face whenever he stopped by the shop – she'd sooner die than disappoint him. _Who knew it would be so literal_, he thought, and giggled again. He drew glances from the other patrons of the shabby internet café he sat in, but he didn't care. Never. Being an obituary and not a society column, he still didn't know what had happened to his suit, but he found it somehow satisfying to know she was dead; he didn't have to kill her himself this way. She was already so damn _scared _of him. It would have been a bore, a yawn. Hell, the way she drank herself silly every day, she was practically dead already. Well…now it wasn't really _practically _anymore, was it? He laughed to himself again.

Suddenly he was sobered with a horrifying thought; what if she hadn't finished his order before she died? The laughter died in his throat, and the stares _that _drew went completely unnoticed. He realized that he'd never received confirmation before he'd gone off on that last trip to Weaponstown, Mongolia or wherever he'd ended up, but he'd assumed from her frantic nods to his queries that she'd have it done before he returned. What if…

…_survived by her daughter Angel_, he read as his eyes skimmed the paragraph. _Angel, Angel. Poor little or-phan…where are you keeping yourself these days? Do you have what I'm looking for?_

Something inside him – a sharp crackle he got sometimes when he felt chaos and fate coming together like a bloody tornado – pricked him, and he stifled further giggles. For some reason – and there were times he just _knew_ things like this – he could tell that she did have what he was looking for. _Angel, Angel, Angel._ She really, really did.

* * *

Angie Takes Over the Business

Where had all the money gone?

Angel pondered this as the accountant led her down the path to poverty. For all the time she'd spent in Vermont - the eight months in Wellwood and the following year in the city of Burlington - she had not gained the know-how to save a drowning business. Especially an honest and drowning business in Gotham City. It was true that she'd been away from home and alienated from her mother for at least four years, but during all of that, she'd had the vague idea that if her mother's tailoring shop had begun the process of going belly-up, someone would have let her know. No one had.

Now there were bills to catch up on, and while there was money to do that, she'd have to give up the luxury of eating every day. Somehow, her mother's clients had dwindled at the same rate that her apparent love of bingo had siphoned all the cash from her account. Angel had been incarcerated in Arkham for most of her mother's decline, it seemed. The death throes of the business came during the relatively blissful stay in Vermont. And since her mother had unofficially disowned her after she'd accused the handsome oncologist Daniel Cameron – a family friend – of raping her, the death of the family business really wasn't considered _her_ business.

Now that her mother was dead, the family debt was all hers.

"You can get a good price if you sell it," the little man advised. Angel was the only member of her family left alive, and therefore the only person capable of making that decision. "I've got interested buyers contacting me all the time."

"The business, or the storefront?" The Adlam Tailoring Company had enjoyed a quaint and cozy location in Old Gotham, one of the last bastions of good manners left in the city. Angel had heard whispers of organized crime sneaking in their back doors, but the Batman discouraged those kinds of hostile takeovers these days. If this trend held, the location could still be good for at least five more years. In Gotham, that could be a lifetime.

The accountant made an unsure sound. "Either one," he said. "Both would be preferable. If your mother couldn't make ends meet anymore, what makes you think you can?"

That was a good point; her mother had been an upright society woman, so much so that she'd abandoned her daughter for having the gall to get raped. If she lost clients in the Stepford section of their city, what hope would her ex-mental patient child have? On the other hand, and for the same reason, Angel had nothing else lined up for the rest of her life. Even scraping by with two clients a month is still scraping by, period. With three years at Arkham Asylum for kidnapping on her criminal record, Angel couldn't get a job to save her life.

"If I move the business," Angel proposed, "what do my odds look like?"

"Guess it depends where you move to. Anywhere between Old Gotham and the midtown area, rent would probably be too high. Unless you're in the habit of pulling rabbits out of hats." He cleared his throat when he saw that she didn't share his sense of humour. "Ah, otherwise, like say…"he shuffled some papers for effect, "closer to the Docks, you might have a chance of making it work. Barely."

"Then find me someplace where I can barely make it work."

A little bit of time and a great deal of effort later, Angel had her new location. It came furnished with an all-encompassing sense of despair. Instead of finding a new storefront in a seedy neighbourhood, she'd opted for something marginally safer; an apartment-run business in a merely questionable neighbourhood. The upside was that her commute took her from her bed to the kitchen-slash-sewing room in less than a minute. The downside was that her new apartment was just a shade too small for both her workplace and her life, and every one of the five rooms was jammed with reams of fabric and sewing implements; she'd had to erect a dressing screen in the middle of her living room so those clients she was sure she'd never acquire would have a place to get their garments fitted without watching TV or staring into the bathroom at the same time. The upside to being that busy was that she'd had little chance to think about the past; Jane, Scarecrow. Daniel and his burning house. All of that was a memory she was willing to leave behind; well, most of it was.

It had been years since she'd seen Jane; Jane, the innocent teenaged girl…that ill-fated patient lusted after by Dr. Crane. Despite the short time they'd been acquainted, Jane had been the best friend Angie had ever had. They had been separated after that night in the Narrows, when Crane's fear toxin had taken control of the city and Angie's repressed memories of the rape had finally resurfaced, _after _she had unwittingly led her friend right to her rapist's house. It had been a hell of a time for both of them.

As inmates of Arkham Asylum, the two girls had been re-incarcerated, and then re-evaluated by real doctors. Jane was found severely damaged by Crane's ministrations, while Angie was found to have Borderline Personality Disorder; the result of having been attacked by Daniel and treated by Jonathan Crane. He was no longer a doctor, she knew. Something he had lost in the fire; when Daniel's house had burned they had all given something up to the flames. Daniel's body was never found, and neither was that of his wife. Angie was injured, her leg broken in a fall from a second-story window; steel pins now held her shattered bones together, and it still ached every time it rained. On quiet nights, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd also lost a part of her soul.

When Angel had awakened from this nightmare, she'd found herself in Wellwood, a care facility in Burlington, Vermont. Whoever had sent her there was paying good money for her treatment; she'd never found out who was responsible, but it was likely that one of the ADA's in Gotham City had filled out reams of paperwork to get her psychiatric care covered by the state. There had been a woman, present at their rescue on the night of the riot…she'd seen her around Arkham, being generally pissed off at Dr. Crane, and Angel later learned that there had been plenty of questions regarding the incarceration of teenaged girls in an asylum meant for hardened criminals. She'd never learned the attorney's name. If she ever found it…well, God knew how she could repay her, but she would try.

Despite Vermont's therapy, Angel did still think of the chaos on the Narrows more often than she would have liked. It was a kind of blessing that those memories often overshadowed those of Daniel hurting her when she was seventeen; the dark spot on that silver lining was the memory of what she'd done to him in return. Now that she had a new life as a seamstress – a family business she'd never wanted into, but had an aptitude for all the same – Angel had hoped she would be too busy to remember any of it. The years spent in high school making her own clothes at her mother's insistence were paying off now, if one considered being forced penniless into tailoring against one's will a _payoff_. Two months after meeting with her mother's accountant, Angel had zero clients, and very little rainy-day money to last her another week. It was lucky, then, that Fate intervened and brought her a phone call from a complete stranger; completely unknown, and apparently completely wealthy. What he wanted with her was a question for another time.

"I'm just looking for my suit," he had said.

Over the phone, he sounded like anyone else; a customer, looking for what he needed. If there was a pang of suspicion in her veins, it disappeared before Angie could do anything about it. This was Gotham, and bills needed to be paid. She made an appointment for the next day; hopefully, she'd find his order in her mother's things before he arrived. _What a disaster it would be to lose my only client_, she thought. _Nail in my coffin, really._

Gotham had a way of swallowing people whole. The last thing she needed was to help that monster city out.

* * *

**So, thanks again for reading, and thanks so much for all the reviews and new readers! I hope this fabulously long chapter didn't disappoint. Also, as a kind of fanfiction experiment, I'm wondering if anyone has any song suggestions for, y'know, an imaginary soundtrack for this story? I'll start - and, if we're honest, probably continue whether anyone else partakes or not - with this: how about _Wolf Like Me _by TV On the Radio? Anyone familiar with them? Good stuff, if you're not. Awesome video. **

**Thanks again, and stay tuned!**

**-nH**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Fearful Symmetry 

"I want the overcoat to be bigger," he said, "_bigger,_ than the rest of it." He gestured, moving his hands apart as he might if he'd lost a big fish. Angie fought the desire to cut him off, nodding instead.

"It is, it will be. I checked." She continued to nod as he stood looking at her expectantly across her small kitchen. "It's bigger."

"You checked? So it's done?" The Stranger brightened at this; a current of relief inappropriate in relation to the subject ran over his features. His strange features.

"Yeah, I found it last night. It's here," she pointed over her shoulder to the overcrowded living room, where the man's very expensive and quite unusual attire waited on a garment rack. Once she'd realized the extent of the work her mother had put into the suit, she'd painstakingly steamed out any hint of a wrinkle. "Do you…want to see it?"

"Yes," he said. "Of course! Yes." He trailed her into the living room, petting the suit jacket fondly when he came to it. "How did you know it was mine? I've noticed, ah…you haven't said my name."

"Yeah," Angie said. "I'm sorry about that. I don't know your name, it wasn't on the order at all." She smiled sheepishly. "There…isn't even a receipt," she admitted. "Not too many full suits done in this Tokyo purple, though."

"Good, that's good," he said absently. "I'm going to need to…_stand out._"

When he'd first knocked on her door, Angie's heart had immediately felt for him; she hoped it wasn't pity, she knew how unwelcome that was for someone with a visible difference like him. He was cute, undeniably, but she doubted if most people would notice that with the scars running from the corners of his mouth almost to his ears. It must have been agonizing; on anyone else, she would have wondered if this type of thing was an intentional body modification, but his marks were thick and winding and puffy…as if they'd been infected at some point, and had healed poorly. Beyond that, he had a lovely face.

Dark eyes, expressive. Lively. All of that plus scars meant that he _did _stand out. He hadn't met her eyes immediately upon greeting her; his gaze had flickered away, unsteady. She'd looked directly at him, unflinching, because during her years at Arkham she'd seen worse. Maybe those monstrosities weren't physical, but they were far more profound than the disfigurement on this Stranger's face. She commended him for pushing the envelope further, rather than try to hide himself among Gotham citizens who were largely uglier on the inside than either of them were on the outside.

"Sorry about your mom," he said off-handedly, moving around the hanging suit, observing from all angles. The condolence was cursory, but Angie wasn't bothered.

"Thanks," she said. "She was…yeah. She was a good tailor."

"Hmm, I see that. Did she, ah…did she cut this herself? The _pattern_, I mean."

Angie was a bit surprised; it was the first time he'd shown any interest in the making of the suit. "Yeah, she would have. She used to have people do the cutting for her, but…"

"Hard times," the Stranger said thoughtfully. "Did you cut for her? Or…do anything with this?"

"Me? No, I was…I've been…away," she finished lamely.

"You don't tailor?"

"I do, actually, I just don't have the capability or space – or overhead – to do real _bespoke_-type stuff right now. _Yours _was bespoke, completely, though," she added. "Is bespoke, I mean."

He smiled, and his scars jumped out like cartoon drawings. She wondered if he noticed anymore. "Mind if I try it on?"

"Of course, please," she answered, guiding him to the pitiable fitting area behind the curtain in the living room. "I need to confirm the fit."

From behind the dressing screen, she heard something clang to the floor. The Stranger retrieved it before she could make it out in the silhouette. "You're sure you're perfectly, ah…_able_, to alter this, if I should need it?" he asked. Based on her experience with him, he didn't mean it as coyly cruel as it sounded. _You don't know him very well, though_.

"Yeah," she answered. "I used to do this work all the time."

"You said you'd been _a-way_," he finished, appearing from behind the barrier fully suited-up. Angie rose from the couch, all imaginary jabs forgotten.

"Oh, _perfect_," she said, circling him. He let her, shifting uneasily when she moved behind him, tugging at sleeves and hems. Coming around front, Angie touched the points of the blue shirt collar, adjusting the geometric print tie. The Stranger looked away from her, arms held in a kind of limbo, half-raised; he looked nervous. _Maybe it's the scars,_ she thought. Angie hadn't realized just how close she'd come until she saw the restrained tension in his eyes. She stepped back.

"She didn't usually do shirts," she said, continuing as if nothing had happened. She saw him take a surreptitious breath of relief. "Or ties-"

"Not really part of the suit-" he offered.

"Right, not really, but we can. She could do anything, actually." Angie's eyes drifted as she thought of the past. "There was a time when we were just too busy to do shirts and stuff like that ourselves."

"Hard times," he said again, sounding somehow tolerant.

"Right. Are you satisfied?"

Something unfamiliar flashed in his dark eyes, but he smiled again. This time the scars seemed less noticeable. "Yes," he said. He leaned forward as though he had a secret. "I might need some, ah, re-_pairs_ and such, in the future," he warned.

Angie nodded. "I can do that."

He watched, strange expression. "I'll pay."

Angie's amber eyes on his, dark, dark, almost black; no one moved for a long moment. "Of course."

There was a Stranger in her house, she realized; _what's his name?_ She didn't want to ask now, the time wasn't right. They still stared into each other. Those scars faded away, everything faded away, and she was afraid to blink. Afraid he'd disappear.

"How much?" he asked, finally.

Angie blinked. "You didn't pay her already?" He shook his head. She'd assumed he'd been talking about future repairs, not the actual bill. Angie finally broke the connection, turning to her cluttered living room in search of her mother's account records.

"I might have to get back to you…" she said as she shuffled through papers.

"The, ah, _est-im-ate _was around five grand," he said, leaning over her as she looked. She almost blacked out at that.

_Five grand? And he hasn't paid her yet…_that was a huge amount of money for Angie. It was about right for a real tailor – which her mother had been – but by all accounts Marie hadn't been doing business as usual for a while now. It was unexpected of her to charge this man the full price, without writing a receipt, and without taking a deposit first. Actually, it was unheard of.

"Are you sure you didn't make a deposit? It's kind of standard…"

The Stranger shook his head again. "I would remember. Your mother and I, we had a…an agreement. She knew I was good for it." The man stepped back toward the dressing screen in search of his checkbook, she presumed. "And I am."

"Of course," Angie said again, hollowly. She was having trouble imagining that kind of money flowing into her bank account; and possibly more on a regular basis, if he was clumsy and messy enough. He reappeared with his old suit folded over his arm and a brown envelope in his hand.

"This is what we agreed on," he said, handing it to her. It was thick with cash. "Ah…" he leaned toward her, an odd expression on his odd face. "You _might _want to be careful which _bank _you…" he laughed here, awkwardly – "you, deposit that into." The last few words were dead serious. "In fact…maybe you should keep it here."

_So I can get robbed? Have you __seen __my neighborhood, sweetie? _

"I'll figure something out," she said, shrugging. "Stuff it into my mattress, next to the dead hooker."

The Stranger laughed a wild laugh, for just one second before he got it under control. "Lovely to meet you, Angel," he said, taking her hand in a gentlemanly way. "I'll be in touch soon."

"Likewise," she said. Looking up at him seriously, she paused. "Thank-you."

He smiled again, boyish and handsome and scarred. When he walked out of her apartment, it would be the last time she'd ever see the Stranger. Her first meeting with the Joker was still weeks away.

* * *

Crane Watches Over Angel

Jonathan Crane sat in his dingy makeshift office, rifling through pictures of his most successful experiment. Angie Adlam was right there in black and white; older, thinner, hair longer. Her face less carefree than it had been when she was obsessed with him; it had been a nuisance at the time, but now he thought of those days as his prime.

_Not quite, _he corrected himself._ I'm not over yet. My best is yet to come._

The young woman had concerns etched into every feature of her face. She had bills to pay, he knew, and he was also aware that she'd had trouble finding employment due to her criminal record. He would have changed that if he could have, the way he'd changed some other pertinent details on her records at Arkham; unfortunately, the kidnapping of James was not something he was responsible for. In fact, it was really the only reason she'd come to his attention at all.

"Sir," called a voice from the doorway. George stood there in his nondescript glory, carrying an envelope sure to hold more photographs of his quarry. "I got some news for you."

Crane beckoned him in. "Good. Have a seat and fill me in."

George sat in the metal chair across Crane's desk. He tossed the envelope down in front of him. "Got some pictures of your girl's new client, I guess. She's working out of her apartment now."

Crane lifted an eyebrow as he opened the envelope; George was making it all sound a bit seamy. He hoped she hadn't turned to prostitution in her desperation. "A client?" he asked. "What kind of client, George?"

The man gave a short laugh. "Not the kind you're thinking, Doc. He went in wearing one thing and came out in another. Looks like she's carrying on her mother's business. She's on the fourth floor, so I haven't been able to get eyes on her apartment yet, but I'm pretty sure she's just a tailor. No guys other than this one heading in or out."

Crane saw the guy in question caught on film, standing on the wooden fire escape outside her place. He seemed frozen in a moment of melancholy, dressed in a handsomely made three-piece suit. Crane recognized the work; Marie Adlam must have had at least one more client before she'd died. He doubted that Angie had the expertise yet to pull something like this off.

"I included a close up of his face," George prompted him, nodding to the sheaf in his hands. Crane sorted through them until he found what he was looking for.

It was hard to tell the client's age in black and white, but his face seemed heavily lined; Crane squinted at the darkness around the man's mouth. "Are those…scars, or makeup?" he asked.

"Scars," George answered. "Good old-fashioned Glasgow smile." He shook his head. "Hate to meet the guy who'd do that to ya. This guy here, he ain't no ballerina either."

"Maybe he got them when he was young," Crane said. "What do you mean by that?"

"I know his face, seen him around town, if you know what I mean. I seen him in makeup – a while ago he robbed a bank wearing a clown mask, with all this paint on underneath."

"To cover the scars?" Crane guessed.

"Cover them? Hell, no. Guy paints over them in red, so he's smiling like a regular rodeo clown. It's like he _wants _you to notice them, like war paint. Something about him, Doc – it ain't right."

"And what's he doing with my Angel," Crane wondered in a whisper to himself. "Good work, George. Has she seen you?" George shook his head. "Good, keep on her. I want to know if she sees this clown again."

George rose with a nod and left the room. Crane looked back at the photo of the mystery man; anyone who would showcase such a painful mutilation would be very complex indeed. He'd love to see inside the man's head; more importantly, he needed to keep him away from Angie. She was in a precarious place, like she had been since the day he'd met her. Leaving her to deal with such a dangerous man – bank robber, war-painter – would be like tossing her to the sharks, and Crane was not prepared to let anything or anyone happen to her. The way the man painted himself, and the fact that he was willing to pay such money for a fine tailored suit; it was almost as if he planned to be in the spotlight – and not as anything other than a freak. He was dangerous, Crane knew it. He turned back to the photograph of Angie, unsmiling in the bright Gotham sun.

_It'll be alright, Angel. You're safe with me._

* * *

A Chance Meeting Between Old Friends

"I swear, Mr. Wayne, if I didn't know better I might think you were having me followed," Rachel said coyly. She knew that was exactly what he was doing; it was how he operated. Covertly, expensively, anything to get what he wanted. Luckily, what he wanted most was her happiness; more than even her love. He'd trailed her all the way to _Bantam's First Editions and Antiquities _out of pure curiosity, she told herself.

Bruce had the good grace to play at shock. "Hey, this was pure coincidence. I mean, who knew you and I would share such enthusiasm for…" he picked a book at random from the shelf next to them, "ah…_The King in Yellow_, and such literary masterpieces?" Even he couldn't keep the disdain from his face as he flipped through the volume; almost every page was unreadable with some kind of foreign graffiti. "I already have this one." He put it back, clearly lying.

Rachel stifled a laugh. "I'm looking for a gift for Harvey," she said. "Something iconic, virtuous, like…"

"_Crime and Punishment_?" Bruce guessed slyly.

"I was going to say, 'like _him'_. And more like _War and Peace."_

"Tolstoy fan, then?" Bruce smiled. "I should have known…"

_Your jealousy is showing,_ Rachel thought. "All this aside, I'm glad you're here," she said. It was an opportunity to direct the conversation away from her love life. "I wanted to talk to you about someone…"

"Someone not Harvey?" He was either trying hard to make her uncomfortable or was genuinely that interested in the DA; Rachel guessed it was the former, however subconscious it might be.

She sighed. "Right, someone other than the man you insist on bringing up every time we talk. Listen, Bruce," she went on, choosing to ignore his attempt to interject, "there's someone working in the office now I'd like you to meet. She's young, driven, talented…"

"Beautiful?" he asked. "You're not trying to pawn me off on someone else, are you, Rachel?"

Rachel sighed again, more heavily this time. "No, Bruce, she's actually _too _young for that. Her name is Jane Savary. She was unlawfully confined in Arkham for a few months at the height of Jonathan Crane's fear experiments, and she suffered the worst of his interests."

Bruce became serious at once. "Interests," he said thoughtfully. "I didn't think he had personal interests."

"He did, and they were mostly Jane. He had a sick obsession with her…"

"Did he hurt her?"

"Yes. Well…he experimented on her with a variation on his usual toxin. It took her a long time to come back to the real world, and now she's doing so well working at the DA's office…"

"That's good to hear. Does she need funding for something, schooling…" he trailed off.

"I doubt it. The DA's office is committed to helping her with whatever she wants to do. It's just…Crane's still out there, Bruce. The last time they saw each other, two people died and a house burned down. She hasn't been able to answer any questions about that night, but I can't shake the feeling that Crane was involved with it."

"The riot on the Narrows…" he said. "The heritage house? I think it was the only house in that area affected by the riot, wasn't it?"

Rachel nodded. "It was ruled an accident, but the owners died. No one's sure why she was there at all, aside from the vague connection between her companion and the man who lived there; he was a doctor, she – I think her name was Angela, or Angie – volunteered at his hospital."

"Friend of hers?"

"I think so. She mentioned her a few times in the support group…she needed to be reassured that she was safely tucked away in Vermont."

Bruce nodded. "Is this _Angie_ still in Vermont?"

"As far as I know, yeah. She wasn't my main concern, though - Jane hasn't asked about her in a while." Rachel paused. "Listen, what I'm asking…"

"I understand, Rachel. She needs someone watching over her?"

Rachel nodded, grateful. "Yeah. Not all the time, just…catch Crane. And until you do, make sure he's nowhere near her."

Bruce nodded again. He was hers, and he knew it; anything she asked, anytime. "Gladly, Rachel. Any friend of yours…"

Rachel sighed with relief this time. "Thank-you, Bruce! I really do appreciate you doing this. She means a lot to Harvey and me."

She caught a dark flicker in Bruce's blue eyes, but it was gone before anything came of it. "Of course, Rachel. Now, about this gift…"

She groaned. "I don't need help, Bruce."

"Certainly not," he said with a laugh. "But if you need a coffee afterward…"

She smiled indulgently. "Sure, I'd be glad to join you. Just give me a few minutes to track this down…"

"Check under 'Pretentious'." (note: author does not think Tolstoy is pretentious)

She socked him in the arm with more force than was necessary for a joke; she was met with deceptively slim muscle. Teach her to beat up a superhero. "Meet me here in fifteen or shut up and come with me."

He chose the latter, as she knew he would. Theatrically zipping his lips and throwing away the key, he followed her to the counter. The clerk's eyes widened as he recognized the billionare, but he said nothing. Bruce – purely for show, Rachel was sure – bought a decadent first edition of _Crime and Punishment_. The look of annoyance on Rachel's face amused him to no end.

* * *

Lovely 

Oh, she was lovely, she was quite adequate, she was really such an interesting girl…

He caught himself in this spiral, thinking thoughts better left _un-thought_. She wasn't all that lovely or interesting, and he knew it. 'Adequate' he could let her have. He didn't get a lot of interaction with girls these days, was all, and this one didn't display the fear he was used to. At first he'd thought he was pleased, but he later realized how uncomfortable that was – she was unexpected. Really, what was her problem? She can't just be scared, like everyone else?

"I ougtta _put_ that fear in ya," he murmured to himself, playing with war paint. He'd worn it before, but without the suit it had felt so _incomplete_.

When he'd robbed his first mob bank and killed his crew, he'd ended up with a lot of money. So much that he didn't know what to do with it. A full tailored suit had seemed frivolous at the time, but he'd thought _what the hell, I'm just going to throw most of it away anyway_, and he'd gone ahead and looked up Gotham's finest tailors. The only one who boasted both excellent craftsmanship _and_ a social downward spiral had been the Adlam woman. He'd smelled booze on her the day he'd waltzed into her store, and he'd known she was the one.

Now he couldn't imagine life without this three-piece work of art in that vile shade of purple. Actually, it wasn't _quite _as vile as he'd thought they'd agreed on, but he could hardly take her to court over it now. It was still good, great really, and he'd also ended up with the acquaintance of her daughter. Angel. _"Call me Angie,"_ she'd said. Angie.

"Angie," he said to the mirror, blacking his eyes and redding his wide and twisted mouth. He liked the smile he ended up with. A little bit poetry, a little bit madness. Like a silent film. Like, Ingmar Bergman meets the wild card in every pack.

"Joker," he said. "Pleased to meet ya."

This town wasn't going to know what hit it.

* * *

**Thank-you all for your kind reviews! heartlesssuninveitabledarkness, I hope this chapter cleared up the confusion (they are indeed the same person). Just a few things; one, I don't think Tolstoy is pretentious, and two...anyone get the reference to The King in Yellow? It has nothing to do with Gotham, really, just some other fandom I enjoy. **

**Songs for this part of the story...I'm going to start putting them up at the beginning, maybe, so y'all can have an idea of the lyrics. Since we're still setting up, I'll stick with a favourite of both emptyvoices and me: A Place Called Home by PJ Harvey. It's really beautiful, full of longing for a place to belong. Also listen to The Walk by The Cure. Good songs, both! And I'm always open to musical suggestions. **

**Thanks, and remember to review!  
**

-**nH**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_You got a new boy, you feel you're in with a chance_

_You think you're in his arms but you're in his hands_

_Still he seems so cute and true… and groovy..._

- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: _Red Right Hand (Scream 3)_

Gloves

Fate has a funny way of throwing people together, Angie mused. She'd known he was going to call her even before the phone had rung once; she'd glanced at it, willed it to sound, and it had. When she answered, she was rewarded with a familiar voice.

"Angel," he'd said, "ah, hello. I am calling because, I _need_ something."

"Hello again," she answered, surprised at how pleased she was to hear from him. _He is paying your rent. No wonder it's so nice to hear his voice. _"What can I do for you?" She sat lounging in her living room, reading the day's issue of the _Gotham Times._ Front page news was a split between the Batman and this Harvey Dent guy; she'd been gone for a few years, and had returned to find Gotham in the hands of a rabidly-worshipped lawyer and a masked nutcase hopping from rooftop to rooftop in the night. This kind of thing was pure fiction in Vermont.

"I, uh…know it isn'_t_ your _u-su-al thing_, but I find myself in need of new gloves."

"Gloves," she echoed, laying her paper down. "You're right, it really isn't my thing. What did you have in mind?"

"Purple, leather. Like my last gloves." A beat. "You never saw those. Well, they were purple leather…"

"I got that," Angie cut in. "Listen, I'd love to help you, but do you know how difficult it is to make gloves?"

"_Everyone _knows how difficul-_t_ it is to make gloves," he answered. "Your mother was the best tailor in town. _She _could do gloves."

"_She _was a lot better than me," Angie said. It was a depressing thing to admit. "I really don't know if I can…"

"You can," he interrupted. "She was not _bet-ter _than you, Angie. She was older, and had more experience. You've made gloves before, just do that again but in leather. _Pur_ple."

"I…I guess I could try," she relented. "What makes you think I've done it before?"

He paused a second on the other end. "Your mother," he said finally. "She talked about you, _some_-times. _You_ made your gloves for…your junior prom. Like you made your dress, right?"

Right before she stole away with James, she remembered. She'd never really forgotten. "Right," she said hollowly. She realized what was making her numb; the thought of her mother talking fondly of her to strangers. "Velvet is a lot easier to work with. You sure you don't want velvet?" She was half-joking.

He half-laughed in response. "I do have a _taste_ for the, ah, the_at_rical," he said, "but I'm afraid they just wouldn't last."

_Do you work in the theater?_ Angie wondered. "Okay. I think I must have some leather around in storage, let me look. I might have to call the textile guy-"

"Your, ah, dear old _Mom _made the last pair," he said. "You sure she wouldn't have any leftovers just lying around?"

That surprised her; gloves were really out of the usual range of services a tailor offered for accessorizing a suit. And difficult as hell, she might add. His whole account was weird.

"Well, maybe," she admitted. "It'd be in storage, though. I'll look for them tomorrow."

"The sooner, the bet-ter." The sound of rustling over the line, as if he were looking at his own gloves now. "Mine are currently, ah…hah, _munched._ And…I'm going to need them."

"Munched? What happened?"

"Some, heh…some _mishaps _are better left un-explained." Soft chuckles came over the line. "So, when can you have 'em?"

"Ah…give me a couple weeks?"

"One week would be better. A few days would be best."

"They're really difficult…"

"_One _week and I'll give you a bonus."

"What's your name?" she asked suddenly.

He didn't answer for a long moment. She didn't even hear him breathe. "I'll visit you in a wee-_k_," he said, "and I _hope_ you have some-_thing_…_ready_. Your mother should have the pattern from her pair kicking around there, somewhere."

That hadn't even occurred to her; _at least the pattern's done,_ she thought. "I'll look for her stuff tonight," she said, her mouth suddenly dry. _Maybe the thought of seeing him again…_

She knew that feeling, that hope bubbling up inside. Like a sickness, but _happy._ "See you in a week."

His tongue clicked softly in approval. "Angel," he said in way of goodnight, and the dial tone hit her ears sharply.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Or maybe it's the fact that he's incredibly intimidating, _she thought many times during the next week. She'd spent days sewing, un-sewing, and re-sewing copious amounts of fine purple leather – found just as promised in her mother's things along with the original pattern – and the dry mouth she'd attributed to excitement was growing, accompanied by a crippling fear of disappointing him. Bright purple scraps of deerskin littered her floor. Her leather shears had never seen so much action.

It would have been too convenient for her mother to have labeled his file with his full name – as she had always done in Angie's youth – so all she found written in a nearly illegible scrawl on the cardboard box was "Mr. Jay". There were two receipts included with the patterns, one for a preliminary deposit and one for the first pair of gloves; neither had a legal name. _Who the hell is this guy?_ Another strange detail fluttered out with the onionskin pattern pieces and useless receipts; a Bicycle playing card, the King of Spades riding a bike along a garden path. Spidery playing-card script spelled "Joker" down both sides.

_Ah, the most useless of cards. Or wildest, depending on your game…_

Finally the day came, and she sat in her hastily tidied kitchen, her finished product wrapped in tissue paper on the table in front of her. She had a glass of gin to calm her nerves; there was some warning in the back of her mind regarding her mother and her gin-and-tonic-with-lime days, but Angie ignored it. She resisted the urge to unwrap the gloves and look at them again. Make sure they looked okay, make sure all the lost sleep was worth it. Staring into the crinkled paper, she felt time leave her the way it often did when she had a drink in her hand; a tap on her screen door snapped her out of that.

She shook her head, rose to answer it. It was evening, and pink light streaked the polluted sky and lit her kitchen with an eerie sort of glow; when she opened the door, the soft light against such a harsh vision took her breath away.

"Evening, Angie," he said, standing patiently in the purple suit her mother had made for him. A moment passed, motionless. "Do you mind if I come in?" he asked finally. Mutely, Angie stood aside; she'd considered refusing, but something told her it was too late to refuse this man now.

He was wearing his true face tonight, she realized as he stepped past her into the apartment. That Tokyo-purple overcoat and jacket, that dark green waistcoat…the patterned blue shirt, pinstriped pants. All of that was in concordance with some image, some complex façade, and the only thing missing from it before had been a face. She saw it all so clearly now – he'd been building an avatar. He wasn't some quietly bold recovering victim; he wasn't overcoming abuse when he drew attention to himself this way. He was putting on a suit of armor, and the only thing she hadn't seen was his mask.

His eyes were coal black smudges, starkly contrasted against layers of white paint. She would have thought the look skeletal if not for the wide dripping smile painted over his lips and his scars. It highlighted the bumps and cracks that grew along his mouth; he looked older, and in a way inhuman. She caught herself staring, and not for the first time she didn't stop herself. He caught her too, looked back sideways with amusement. The paint made his every expression seem clearer, more profound.

"Do you…_have_ what I nee-_d_?" he asked.

Angie remembered quite suddenly to breathe. "On the table," she said, shocking herself with the normalcy of her tone. "I hope they're to your liking…"

"I'm sure they will be," he said, picking apart her wrapping with one hand. His eyebrows lifted when they tumbled out, bright purple, glossy and nearly perfect. She hoped.

"They'll be a bit snug-" she started as he tugged one on.

"Because _leather _will _re-lax_," he said with a sigh; she hoped it was satisfaction. He flexed his hand, wiggled his fingers. Angie couldn't take her eyes off him. Turning to her, he caught her staring again, and whatever he was going to say was lost on his lips. She tore her gaze away, looking for her drink.

"Care for a glass?" she choked, swallowing her liquid courage. He laughed to himself as she struggled past the bite of alcohol.

"No, thanks. I'm…uh, driving." He held up his gloved hand, lifted one finger to her in what she feared would be admonishment. "You should be careful," he said, closing the gap between them, pulling on the other glove. Purple leather tapped against her lip. She was frozen under his scrutiny. "Your mother loved the drin-_k_. _She_ nearly went under."

"Who are you?" she said. Her judgment kicked in a moment too late.

He smiled, stepping back. "Perfect fit," he said. "Thanks a bunch." He reached into his jacket and pulled out another brown envelope. It hit the kitchen table with a slap. "I'm afraid I can't stay, but…" he backed away with a smile of promise on his painted face. "I, ah, _will _be back. _Cross – _my_ hear-_t_._"

The exchange must have lasted five minutes, but Angie was numb for the next few hours. She looked in the envelope later that night; out tumbled cash, a lot of it, and one more thing. A playing card. This one wasn't useless, because that wasn't his game; she was sure of it. An executioner, ax held aloft, eyes white under a peaked black hood. _Joker _scrawled in black ink down one side.

The wildest card in the pack.

* * *

Avatars 

_Back again, I see. _Crane watched for himself this time as the stranger in purple stepped out of Angie's apartment, stopping again on the wooden fire escape to look out over the city's back alleys. Finally he continued along the walkway, where he picked up the two young men waiting for him. They made their way down the steps and into an unmarked van. Crane shifted down in his seat as they drove past; he caught a glimpse of the man at the wheel. _Not _the guy he was looking for; some underling, paid to drive. _And paid for what else, I wonder?_

"She's probably up there alone, if you want to go," George suggested from the driver's side. "Talk to her, whatever. Now she knows what this freak is really like, she's probably dying for a shoulder to cry on."

"No," Crane answered. "The time isn't right." _And I doubt Angie would cry on my shoulder these days. _"I've got business tonight, but I want you to continue to keep an eye on her. If I know my girl, she'll want to medicate that little meeting out of her memory. Make sure it's nothing _too_ ill-advised."

"Sure you don't need me for your business meeting?"

Crane shook his head. "No, I need you here. It's just the Chechen and his drug-addled clientele; I have enough men to cover me. Angel doesn't." Another unmarked van, white this time, pulled around the street corner to stop beside George's car; Crane stepped out of the vehicle, leaning back in for a moment. "Stay hidden," he said. "If she tries to buy any fine white powders or pills from the street dealers around here – or anywhere, really – put a stop to it. Otherwise…" he held his hands up and retreated to the waiting van.

xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxx

As they moved through Gotham's dusk-lit streets, Crane went over the image of the mystery man in his memory. Now that he'd seen the full effect himself – the fine suit in garish colors, the stark and frankly hideous makeup – he worried for Angie's safety to an even greater extent. He knew what she was like – a girl in need of attention. This man was hard to ignore; if he felt the same way about Angel, she could be in for another long dark ride with a psychopath like Daniel Cameron. _And remember how that ended – I'm not sure she'll be able to get away with it a second time._

This criminal clown didn't know what he was getting into, Crane suddenly realized. It brought a smile to his face to think that Angie might turn out to be the predator in that pair. He put a stop to the smirking when he realized his error; she'd been at Wellwood in Vermont for the last year, surely she'd been treated for her problems with men. It was even likely that she was medicated, and that medication was probably keeping her more sane than dangerous. She was still his Angel; he still needed to look after her.

The sun set, and in darkness his men stopped the van in a multi-level parking structure to wait for their associates. Presently a trio of black SUVs squealed into the parking lot and the Chechen appeared.

He was a man of obvious confidence, swaggering into the line of sight of the van's back windows. His ego couldn't have been hurt by the twelve men at his back, or the pack of rabid-sounding hounds Crane could hear snarling in one vehicle's back seat. He didn't have a name; just a title proclaiming nothing more than his heritage. The Chechen.

He leaned into the moonlight streaming into the parking structure; catching sight of the circular spotlight reflected in a mirrored window, he nodded to his men. "That is why we bring _dogs,_" he said in his sharp accent. Crane leaned to follow his gaze and saw the outline of a bat imposed on a low-hanging cloud. "My litt-el _princes_." The Chechen scratched his Rotweilers fondly as his men dragged a frantic figure from another SUV.

"Let's go," Crane said to the muscle around him, pulling on his mask. He secretly grinned at the young man's cries of _get 'em off me! _Ah, the good old days.

"Look what your drugs did to my customers!" the Chechen cried as soon as he saw Crane's men appear.

Crane's grin spread. "Buyer beware," he called from the van as he swung out, emerging from the darkness as the Scarecrow. "I told your man my compound would take you places. I never said they'd be places you wanted to go."

"My business is repeat customers!" the man said incredulously.

"If you don't like what I have to offer, you can buy from someone else," Crane retorted. "Assuming Batman left anyone to buy from."

As if on cue, the Chechen's little princes strained against their leads, foaming at the mouth as their black muscles bulged. The Chechen and his men searched the darkness for a sign. Shadows flapped at the corners of the garage; flapped like wings, like leather. This possibility hadn't even occurred to Crane.

"My dogs are _hungry_," the Chechen called into the darkness. He searched the black, eyes roaming until they fixed on their target; a bat-shaped man, perched on the edge of the wall. The Chechen smiled. "_Pity _there is only one of you."

Then it all happened very fast.

One of Crane's own men was sucked into the darkness behind his van. That was _not _where the Chechen had addressed his speech. When Crane realized the implications, he raced to the driver's side; before he could blink, bullets were flying and simulated Batmen were lunging out of the shadows in knee pads and homemade bat masks. Crane narrowly escaped a gunshot wound to the kidneys from a poor imitation, saving himself reflexively with a dose of powdered fear. _He doesn't use guns, you idiots._ One of his remaining men scanned the ceiling with a look of reverent terror; expecting the real thing, Crane surmised.

"That's not him," he said.

They heard the roar of the tumbling military vehicle before they saw it; there was only a second before it came crashing through the concrete wall, rolled over innocent cars, and ended at rest in the midst of scattered rubble.

"That's more like it." Crane watched as ill-educated Chechen gangsters fired semi-automatic rounds at the impervious tumbler. Lights flickered, the fortified car seeming unconcerned with the carnage the men attempted to deal it. Crane knew what was coming; carnage, yes, but not anything that would benefit him if he stuck around. He climbed into the driver's seat. He wasn't about to wait for his downfall to appear.

As he started the van, he saw he was very nearly too late. One of the imitators advanced on the Chechen men with a rifle; the real thing emerged from some invisible hiding place and used that preternatural strength to bend the firearm's barrel. Crane spun the wheel, screeching out of the danger zone before he could witness anything more. The Batman; Crane didn't fear cops, and he didn't care about the armed gangsters he dealt with on a regular basis, but the _Batman…_that was different. He'd quite effectively put a stop to Crane's fun before. Now that Angel's safety was on the line, the stakes were higher; Crane had to make sure it didn't happen again.

He felt the impact as a certain masked menace threw himself at the side of the van; as metal pierced metal, Crane purposely scraped against a support pillar, knocking the Batman off. The engine roared as he made his escape, racing steadily down the incline toward the exit. He was _almost _home free when the sky crashed down on his head.

Later, Crane would reflect on the moment and wonder why he hadn't jumped out after the windows had shattered and the metal roof had come dangerously close to caving in his own skull; clearly, he decided, the impact had momentarily knocked him out. Sandwiched between two unfortunate Batman knockoffs, he kicked himself for allowing it to happen.

"Don't let me find you out here again," Batman said gruffly to his unwanted little helpers as he climbed into his special ops vehicle.

"We're trying to help you!" one man argued. Crane shot him a disgusted look; _fools multiply around here like gerbils_, he thought.

"I don't need help," Batman answered.

"Not my diagnosis." Crane couldn't help himself. There were questions here regarding _one _man in a bat costume fighting crime; an epidemic of copycats was worth years of study. _At least I'll have time for it. _

"What gives you the right?" the guy next to him continued, whining and adamant. "What makes you any different from me?"

"I'm not wearing hockey pads," the original growled.

He squealed away in his tumbler, probably leaving thousands more dollars in property damage in his wake. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. There was some connection there, Crane was sure of it; any cop who claimed to be on the hunt for the Batman was a liar or a hypocrite. In Crane's experience, when Batman left, the police quickly took his place.

When they arrived tonight, they would effectively remove his protection from Angie's life. What hero would be responsible for that?

* * *

Polaroids

A girl, ghostly and familiar:

_Just you wait_

_If he hasn't wormed his way inside you yet, he will soon_

And a Scarecrow, all too close:

_Jane _

_You're trembling_

_Is something wrong_

_Does something scare you_

_Jane_

Jane was cold when she came back to herself, that bright monstrous imprint jumping in front of her eyes before she was fully awake. It was light out, thankfully; glancing at the clock, she saw that she didn't have much time before she had to get up for work anyway. She sat up in bed, and let the sunlight warm her as much as it could before she left her comfortable cocoon.

It had been a while since her last Arkham Asylum dream; a couple weeks, maybe. Working for Harvey Dent had done wonders for her security and self-esteem, and the persistent friendship of Rachel hadn't hurt much either. The DA's office was busily turning Gotham from a nightmare into a place that Jane could conceivably spend the rest of her life in without fearing for her safety when the sun went down. She supposed the Batman had something to do with that, too; hard to say if such a mystery man was really helping in the long run, but for now, he appeared to have the city's criminals on the run. Good for him, she thought.

The phone rang just as she was stepping out of the shower; coffee brewing, she almost felt like a real adult when she completed these morning rituals. Dripping onto the kitchen floor, she picked up the handset.

"Jane," a friendly voice said in greeting. "It's Rachel. I wanted to catch you before you came in for the day; got a minute?"

"Sure," Jane said hesitantly. "What's up?"

"I have some good news for you - Jonathan Crane was arrested last night." She paused, maybe waiting for a reaction. Jane found she didn't have a breath in her lungs to react with, so Rachel went on. "Now, we have Rossi's testimony to take today, but you don't really have to be here for that – frankly, we've got the Maroni case wrapped up as tight as it's going to get, and I'm sure we'll be spending a lot of time trying to figure out how to put Crane away for the rest of his youth. There's going to be a lot of discussion of his crimes, Jane…I know I'm going to be uneasy all day, I can't imagine what it's going to be like for you. We'll need your testimony against him, eventually, but today I think you might want to stay home. What do you think?"

Jane was speechless for a few minutes; the quiet was so profound that Rachel had to ask if she was still on the line. "Yeah," Jane answered hollowly, "I'm here. I'm thinking." She paused. "Is he going to…_be _there?"

"Well…he's in central holding right now, but I imagine Harvey will want to talk to him sometime today," Rachel said. "You don't need to see him, Jane. Not until his trial, and then only when you're testifying."

"Alright, then. I think I'll come in. I think I'll be okay."

She could feel Rachel's approval beaming over the line. "Alright, atta girl. I'll see you in a bit, then."

A few minutes later Jane wondered if she'd spoken in haste; surely the discussion around the water cooler would include details of his treatments, of Arkham, of the Scarecrow…there were days when she felt that she'd just escaped the asylum, and some nights she awoke _sure_ she felt burlap against her skin. She shook, on those days and nights. She hoped she wouldn't shake today.

_If he hasn't wormed his way inside you yet, he will soon_

He had, she realized. She remembered the voice that had said that – Angie, before she lost her confidence. Weeks before the riot, Angie had been laughably secure in her position as predator; her prey had been none other than Dr. Crane. Jane had felt so much safer, seeing him cringe under the gaze of a girl, just a girl – just like her. Angie had taught her that any man can be thrown off his horse. Jane had retained that lesson, even after Angie entered the house of her own enemy, and her authority over men and their horses had temporarily crumbled.

Jane hoped it was temporary, anyway; she couldn't believe that strength like Angie's could be erased in one night.

She remembered one day, early in her descent into Arkham's underworld, when Angie had snuck into the nurse's station and stolen the Polaroid camera they used when admitting new patients; gleeful at her own gall, Angie had insisted on taking two photos of both of them, so they'd each have a memento of their time underground. Angie had never seemed to believe she'd ever leave the asylum herself, but she'd always hoped Jane would see freedom someday. _As long as he doesn't get his claws in ya first, Bitey._

Those weren't good days, but still…Jane missed something about them. The raw, everyday need for survival, maybe; that drive that either forced people to connect or forced them to implode under the pressure. She and Angie had decided to survive; _it was that casual_, she thought, and laughed to herself. _We were just that amazing under fire._ She'd always kept the snapshot handy, once her belongings had been recovered from her room at Arkham; classic Polaroid cameras print pictures in an inconvenient size, but she'd always found a space in her purse or briefcase for it. She didn't feel right leaving the photo on her desk at the office. She never felt right without it nearby.

She wondered how _right _Angie felt, all the way in Vermont.

_She's getting better_, she told herself. _Just like you, she's getting better. _

It had been far too long, she realized. _Find out how she is. Call her. Give her the news about Dr. Crane._

That was a plan that could pull her through any difficult day. Jane took a moment before leaving her apartment to look at the picture again; part of her adult ritual, like pouring coffee into her travel mug and making sure her cat was fed. Two young girls smiled back, pale and tangled, but safe with each other.

* * *

**Longest chapter yet. The song "Red Right Hand" is going to recur throughout the story; it's really quite Joker. And, I think that's it! Thanks for reading, and please review! **

**-nH**

**Update: I can't believe I forgot to include this: many, many thanks to emptyvoices for her insights into Angie and Jane's respective issues. She is an invaluable resource to me, and you should check out her Red Eye/Batman Begins crossover fic for more on Jane (a bit of an alternate version of the character, but still works with my writings). She does good work! **


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_Go!_

_Disconnect the phone-_

_It's primitive and cold! _

_Free the dormant you-_

_Dying to unfold: _

_Communicate!_

-Prick: _Communique_

Wire in the Blood

There were days when Jim Gordon felt something in his veins; age, maybe, but that was doubtful. It buzzed like an unpleasant electricity, whining in his ears, making his bones ache. He felt it when things in Gotham were approaching a head - those storms brewing. When, say, crime families were gearing up for total war with each other, or when lunatics were laying plans to take over the asylum.

Climbing the steps of the Gotham First National Bank, he felt it – running like a wire in the blood. He hated that feeling. Officers kept the churning mass of reporters at bay, but he knew why they were there, what they represented; Gotham City wanted answers, and he didn't have them yet. All he had today was a bank full of dead thieves, and that _feeling_.

Forensic specialists worked the lobby, some glancing up as he entered. Detective Anna Ramirez came bearing black and white surveillance prints from the security cameras; their little prima donna caught on film again, no doubt.

"He can't resist showing us his face," Ramirez said with a sly tone. Yes, there he was: the ringleader. Always available for a close-up.

_He must have been the one kid in school who could never be ignored, _Gordon thought. _Class clown. _

He did resemble a clown, the wide mouth plastered over with red and white grease; more accurately, a painting of a clown left in the rain. This guy, the Joker, he must have put his face on sometime last week and just lived in it since then.

"What's he hiding under that makeup?" Gordon said, half to himself. He tried to get something more from the frozen black gaze in the print he held. Aside from a mean gleeful glint in the criminal's eyes – focused arrogantly on the security camera – he was as inscrutable as always.

Gordon and Ramirez entered the vault, blown open with explosives earlier in the day; one pack of bills remained on the table inside. Sort of a tongue-in-cheek joke, Gordon guessed. He laid the photographs out next to the money. Glancing up, he was not entirely surprised to see the stranger in the doorway; he entered silently, as always. Ramirez followed Gordon's gaze, then looked back to him; he nodded to her, and she moved past the Batman to clear the room.

Gordon wordlessly held up the clearest photo of the Joker for Batman to see; the exposed half of the stranger's face registered no surprise, but Gordon doubted if taking the mask off would make the man any more decipherable. "Him again?" Batman rasped. "Who are the others?"

Dead bank robbers; Gordon hated to say it, but he'd probably sleep okay tonight. "Just another bunch of small-timers." He watched the stranger pass one of his mysterious gadgets over the remaining pack of bills; it crackled faintly.

"Some of the marked bills I gave you," Batman noted.

"My detectives have been making drug buys with them for weeks," Gordon answered. "This bank was another drop for the mob. That makes five – we've found the bulk of their dirty cash."

"Time to move in."

_Thanks, boss._ "We'd have to hit all banks simultaneously," he said. "SWAT teams, backup…and what about this Joker guy?"

"One man, or the entire mob?" Batman had been right on the money before, and they both knew it. When he spoke, Gordon would be a fool not to listen. "He can wait."

"When the new DA hears about this, he'll want in," he warned.

"Do you trust him?"

"Be hard to keep him out," Gordon said. He made the error of looking away to bag the scant remaining cash. "I hear he's as stubborn as you-" looking up, he stopped. There was no one left to talk to; sighing, unsurprised, he continued to tag the evidence and returned to his officers outside. They had a lot of work to do if they ever wanted to finish scrubbing all of Gotham's dirty cash out of circulation.

Something about this plan, though, left a taste behind; metallic…_electric._ It could be bad; _frankly_, Gordon thought, despite his trust in Batman and his faith in Gotham city, _this feeling is hardly ever good_. He feared it was a warning from nature - like the taste in the air before a lightning strike. Like the buzz in his bones during a summer storm. Like a wire, running in the blood.

* * *

One Man

After carrying the solid weight of his armor home on torn flesh and bruised bone, Batman needed a rest. He went to sleep on display in his glass case; Bruce Wayne stayed awake to clean up the mess.

The sounds of the docks weren't audible down here; a few levels underground, sheltered in anonymity, he worked under lights bright enough to be daylight. Missing the crucial warmth that was the hallmark of the sun, but still – better than nothing. After he, the dashing and drunk billionare idiot, had burned down his family's mansion, Batman had been forced to take shelter somewhere less convenient. Hidden away in a subterranean chamber, far from prying eyes…that was best for a bat. Certainly a bat with secrets.

As he stitched his own injuries, Bruce concentrated on his words with Rachel Dawes; assistant DA, woman he loved. Much of the reason he did things like jump from a twenty-foot elevated ramp onto a moving vehicle was in fact Rachel; it wasn't usually as literal as her asking him to catch someone, but she lived in the city, loved the city despite its flaws…and now, working with the white knight Harvey Dent, she in part _represented_ the city. Apprehending Crane had been as easily said as done, which was rare – if one didn't count the dog-inflicted flesh wounds and spectacular bruises patterning his body. Now that the easy work was out of the way, he should probably make an effort to meet this Jane; Rachel made her sound like a fighter. Bruce liked that. It was something he could relate to.

Struggling, though…Bruce grimaced as he realized his teeth were grinding. Fighting the urge to groan aloud at the needle digging in at such an awkward angle, he supposed…_Jane_, though, she was struggling to recover from Crane's bad medicine. He remembered how painful the fear had been from his brush with the toxin; it had taken two days comatose to overcome that, and it had been the same version of the compound Crane had used on the public. Jane had received something special, along with the experimental drug: his interest, his _attention_. Rachel had said that Crane had a _sick obsession. _The idea of a man like Jonathan Crane feeling that strongly for a teenager – or anyone - was disturbing.

Taking a break from staring at his open wound for a moment, Bruce caught sight of the surveillance monitors around him and remembered; he must have seen this Jane already. If she'd been working at the DA's office for the last few months, then she'd been caught on tape with Dent at some point. Tapping a few keys with his blood-sticky fingers, he brought up files from a month previous; on the campaign trail, Dent gestured like a passionate hero at a podium with his people assembled onstage behind him. Mostly men – guys Bruce knew from his life as a rich, fictional philanderer. He spotted Rachel, seated off to the side next to a young blond girl; she could be no more than nineteen, by his guess. As Dent spoke to the crowd of supporters, Rachel leaned over and whispered something into the girl's ear; her young face, unconsciously tense before, broke into a smile bright as sunlight. Bruce smiled at that himself; Rachel had a way with people, it seemed. If that was Jane, it seemed that she would be easy to like.

His throbbing arm forgotten now, other monitors begged for his attention. The bank robbery today; in the upper right corner of his setup, three masked clowns with guns stormed into the building, firing shots into the air. There was no audio, so he watched people scream in silence, saw plaster from the ceiling crumble soundlessly and fall to the floor. Fast forward about ten minutes, and the last man standing among the robbers bends low to talk to a dying bank manager, removing his mask at the last second. When he rises, he turns; his movements are somehow jagged as he searches the walls for security cameras. Bruce wouldn't have known the man was looking for anything at all if he hadn't been paying very close attention to his details – his roaming eyes, just for those few seconds. That tiny pause before moving on to the bus that had backed through the front of the bank, killing his accomplice. That subtle look of sly awareness on his face – he wanted to be seen. One of those rock-star criminals, only in it for the money and the spoils it would bring. Notoriety. Women. A guy with a face like that had to have trouble with the ladies.

It painted an uncomfortable picture, but only because this man was like the creep in high school all the girls avoided; wore his damage on his sleeve, waiting for pity or fear to get him what he wanted. Ignore this guy long enough, Bruce thought, and he'd swing from his own noose. He'd never seen a thief like this do anything different.

It wouldn't be long before Bruce Wayne would realize how grave his miscalculation was.

* * *

Waiting for Tonight

Tonight he would make his entrance. Tonight, he would walk into Gotham City's underworld in exactly the state he always imagined he would end up – maybe not _always_, but certainly every day for such a long time it might as well have been. That state: inhuman.

He would be more than a criminal, really. More than a villain, he would be the _Devil _to these people. And after he was finished sewing up the underbelly and dragging all the little fish down to Hell…then he would take his red right hand to everyone else in this filthy bloody town. The Joker; misleadingly comic, he presented himself in a manner carefully calculated to annoy first, and terrify later. He knew he would look like a crackpot until his first display of the brutality he so effortlessly lived in. The purple suit, accented with green; the poorly bleached hair. The makeup. The very things that would make him appear harmlessly vain and inept at first would serve as badges of madness and sick efficiency later, when he _really _got started on Gotham.

He took a rare moment of inner calm to stare at his reflection. Things had been better since he'd donned this façade; the black eyes and white skin and red, red mouth. He was better able to do this now, to look at himself in the mirror. The rare times he'd tried to hide himself he'd met his own eyes with shame and a feeling of inadequacy; there was no hiding his true colors, and he knew it. It wasn't even the scars, it was something else, something deeper. The scars were an easy handle to grab when he needed one, but he knew he'd been carrying this difference in him for longer than he'd worn the marks on his face. When he scared people, it was something hidden deep under his skin that always managed to get under theirs. The only way to handle himself was to make this evasive quality concrete; grotesque; _obvious. _

And now, he liked himself. His broken smile curved upward in the mirror, genuine and pleased. He wasn't going to hide anymore. He hadn't for years. Whatever quality in him that inspired disgust was his best friend, now. He looked in the mirror and saw chaos in his face, and was glad. It was chaos he wanted to bring to the whole world. Looking like chaos incarnate…well, it felt like home.

Thank God for the drunk seamstress and her broken little daughter. Without Marie, the Emperor of Anarchy would have no clothes, and without Angel…he laughed to his reflection, the sound wheezing through his pipes like wind through a cracked window. He liked the way his face looked like that; in a word, inhuman. Without Angel, this cunning Devil would have no certain conquests to look forward to. He'd made his entrance to her already, and the look in her eyes had not disappointed him; surprised, yes. But _not _a disappointment.

She was going to look so damn pretty when he managed to take her apart.

The Joker pulled on his new gloves – snug, because the leather would relax – and laid his plans for the night.

* * *

Border 

No words could describe the disappointment Angie felt the second time she was diagnosed with a mental disorder.

In Vermont, her broken leg healing painfully and her memories just starting to regain that razor's edge, she had no handsome young doctor to treat her, and no sympathetic classmate to kidnap and conceal in her bedroom. Wellwood was nice, even cozy for that kind of health facility; but, it was only the real world. Angie awoke there feeling cold, surrounded by plain human beings and medication. That was when they told her what her problem really was.

'Borderline Personality Disorder' gets its name from the idea that the condition rests on the line between _neurosis _and _psychosis. _The joke about her having always been _almost_ psychotic would occur to her later; for the first little while, it just wasn't funny. With all the therapy and pills and evaluation, she was starting to think that maybe this was a real illness. Apparently, it caused her to seek affection and attention from anyone lucky enough to catch her interest; initially, she'd wondered how that was different from anyone else's behavior, but the doctors had assured her that it was indeed worse for her. Lately it had been innocent high school students and crazy psychiatrists, but it could go in any direction, she'd been told. Her dependence on Crane had been nothing more than a symptom.

She didn't even have a picture to remember him by; not of her own, anyway. That was probably for the best. She'd been successfully not thinking of him for a while, but now that she was back in Gotham she had the newspapers to deal with. Apparently, the Scarecrow had been arrested a day or two ago; Dr. Crane's hard eyes glittered out at her next to a stack of words that she chose to ignore.

Her own eyes closed as her fingertips drifted over the grainy photograph; she could hear her scissors calling her from the other room, begging her to let them cut that picture out so she could store it in her wallet. She resisted that urge with another sip of her drink. The pills, she'd found, were not so serious that she couldn't still mix them with alcohol. It wasn't recommended by professionals, but professionals weren't living in her head, were they? No, it was Jonathan Crane in her head, along with every other ill-conceived love affair she'd had in the last few years. She knew thinking about him was not healthy, but she'd always found it hard not to…unless she was dulled by alcohol, that pain reliever she'd discovered once free of constant supervision. It steadied her nerves.

She kept her consumption to a minimum, knowing – as Mr. Jay had said – that her mother had loved the drink. It was just that she had a lonely life to look forward to, and nothing killed boredom quite as well as being in love. Failing that, since it had become a mental illness for her, the best cure for dull days was the apathy of alcohol. She may still be bored, but at least with the buzz of liquor in her veins, she didn't care about it anymore.

But oh, Jonathan Crane; those blue eyes, those studious glasses…she missed seeing him every day, despite herself. She knew it had been delusion that had tied her to him, but knowing it didn't stop her from wanting it back. She took another sip of rye and ginger, looking down again at the mug shot under her fingertips. _C'mon, honey – keep it. _

No.

Not only was that _not _the way she wanted to remember him…heck, she wasn't supposed to want to remember him _at all. _She had gone through more than a year of therapy to overcome him. True, she had also turned her back on him the night of the fire…but what else could she have done? She was quickly coming to the end of her drink; she considered mixing another, but decided against it for the time being. At least now, she thought, he was safely away from Jane. He would be forced to keep that promise.

_What about Jane? _

She wasn't going to contact her, at least not yet. Maybe if Angie ever moved out of this neighborhood, or got a client who didn't wear Hallowe'en makeup... Looking over the last few years – and where life had led her - Angie found it hard to believe that she would have been missed anyway. _Jane wasn't sick like you. Get yourself together before you step into her life again. _

Angie sighed, and rose; she held the paper in her hand, prepared to throw it in the recycling bin. Barely thinking, she moved to the sink and set her empty glass on the counter; she hesitated in front of the liquor cabinet, but a sudden memory of her mother spewing insults on prom night moved her along. By the time she was in the living room, she had completely forgotten the newspaper's front page, left casually on the kitchen table; Jonathan Crane's pretty face waiting to be rediscovered on another vulnerable night.

* * *

**So, thanks for reading this far! Let me tell you, emptyvoices has helped me a lot in figuring out Angie's motivation, and anything I got right in "Border" is owed to her. Anything I got wrong is due to my poor listening skills. More action is imminent, and I can't wait until Angie and Joker come to learn each other's dark secrets. So stay with me, and please do review! **

**A note to The Strange One: Thank-you so much for your glowing reviews of both Heart of Glass and this story! I'm glad to still have you around. And it's good to know I've hit the right balance in the Joker's speech - he can be a slippery fella to get down. Hope you continue to like where it's going!  
**

**That heartfelt gratitude goes out to everyone else who's reviewed, too. **

**-nH**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_I am human and I need to be loved_

_Just like everybody else does_

-The Smiths: _How Soon is Now?_

Unfortunate Circumstance

Arkham still stood, tall and jagged, with a strange sense of warped measurement; the same as it had over a year ago. The same as it has for decades. It was a prison for hundreds of mad criminals, men who had done deplorable things in the name of whatever delusions plagued their fevered minds. To some, it must have seemed like the gateway to a living Hell; to others, a collection of horrors so familiar it was like home. To Jonathan Crane, it was just another inconvenience.

Exasperation marked his movements as he played _follow the leader_ back to his cell and changed into the standard red jumper. Watching his own clothes taken away, he wondered how long it would be before he had the opportunity to leave. He had men inside, true, but they were hardly figures in authority – that was something the real authorities would have sniffed out. He sat on his cot, stretched out. Waited for the day to end. Hopefully George would remain unseen by Angel. Hopefully the creep in purple would stay away.

Crane's mouth curled in a smile as he realized how sticky things might get in the coming days, what with many of his former patients still walking around the asylum. All he could do about it now was smile; it was fortunate that his fighting skills had improved in his time outside, because without his favorite weaponized hallucinogen he would otherwise be walking meat.

There was a hearty metallic click as his door unlocked from the outside; he remembered how he used to walk into patients' rooms without knocking first. Oh, nostalgia. He sat up quickly. A woman of slender build and yellow hair slipped through the doorway, followed by a surly-looking orderly; the woman held a clipboard balancing a paper cup, nametag dangling from the pocket of her long white coat. The appearance of his new doctor was unexpected so soon after his incarceration.

"Jonathan Crane, I presume?" the woman asked. She wasn't the type he would have expected to be working in a place like Arkham; she looked like a Gap model, and s. In fact, he had the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't have hired her if he'd still been in charge. "I'm Dr. Quinzel. I'll be working with you for a while, until Dr. Mason returns."

Dr. Mason; Crane remembered him from his time as administrator. If he wasn't mistaken, the man was a weak and uncreative excuse for a psychoanalyst. "Dr. Mason," he said, feigning ignorance. "Returns from where?"

The woman flipped disinterestedly through the clipboard held in her delicate hands; the orderly behind her stared vacantly out the barred window. Crane was about to prompt her with a _"hello?"_ or something similarly abrasive when she looked up, smiling brusquely.

"He's away for the time being," she said. "In the meantime, we've got some medication for you, and we'll begin one-on-one therapy tomorrow afternoon."

_Medication already,_ he thought. _Impossible. That can't have been approved so soon._ Suspicious, he nodded. Making a note in her file, Quinzel smiled again and set the paper cup on the edge of his sink. It was then that he noticed the nearly imperceptible shaking in her hand; that frail wrist trembling as she lowered the cup, unwilling to come closer to him. Looking into her face, he saw the well-hidden fear there; she focused on what her hands were doing, keeping her gaze trained safely away from him. _She's terrified_, he realized. Furthermore, she was something of a mimic; he suddenly recognized her mannerisms as his own. _Now where did you learn that?_

"Do I know you?" he asked, leaning toward her. She stepped back in response. "How long have you worked here?"

A nervous laugh escaped her. "Only a few months," she said, and she sounded like a teenager. She seemed barely out of adolescence, though logic implied she was closer to thirty. Her cool detachment was quickly dissolving. "I think you know me from-"

"Gotham U," he said finally. "You were a student of mine, weren't you?" She nodded. He smiled, disarmingly. "What's your first name?"

"H-Harleen," she stammered, blushing, her composure now completely obliterated.

_Never make a doctor/patient relationship personal,_ he thought. Boy, had he paid the price on that one in the last few years. Telling him her first name was an error he would never have tolerated, as her boss. He had vague recollections of blonds ill-suited to work at Arkham from his brief time as a professor barely older than his students; he felt sure she would also not have passed his class, if only he had been able to keep his job teaching it. Whoever had assigned this woman to treat the criminally insane had made a colossal mistake.

Perhaps one that could prove useful to him.

Crane knew how people saw him; aesthetic perfection was not something he held as terribly important in his judgment of people's worth, but he doubted if Miss Quinzel – he couldn't bring himself to think of her as 'doctor' – had similar values. His pretty face had done him more harm than good in his term as administrator, and it had made getting the job in the first place damn near impossible; on occasion, though, looking the way he did had worked in his favor. Take Angel Adlam, for instance; she had decided to trust him in the first few seconds of their relationship. He could see the way Harleen Quinzel was looking at him now; terrified, interested. Given the right incentive, she could easily become enthralled.

Crane smiled again, hoping to appear sympathetic. "What kind of medication are you giving me, Harleen?" he asked. "I can't imagine you've had a chance to fully review my file and prescribe something suitable…"

She grimaced slightly. "No, I haven't," she admitted. "It's just a sedative to help you sleep. Since I'm not sure what to treat you for yet…" _and I'm not sure you're insane_…Crane saw the sentiment in her eyes. Thank God for that.

He rolled his eyes, still smiling that friendly smile. "Got you on rocket-skates, have they?" he said. "I remember how busy it got here, no one to assist you…no way to really know if what you're doing is _helping _or not." He shrugged. "I guess they figure a sedative can do no harm."

She nodded eagerly. "That's right," she said. She sounded relieved; the reference to her superiors as _them, _some vague entity prone to prescribing generic medications, had paid off.

Now was the time to gain her trust; it was unfortunate, but he was sure he would have been here for a few weeks anyway. If his play for Harleen Quinzel worked out, he could conceivably cut that time down to days. Slowly he rose, keeping a casual eye on the woman. He was pleased to note that she didn't back away this time, didn't even seem to consider it.

He took the paper cup gently, and swallowed the lone red pill inside. "See you in the morning, I guess," he said.

* * *

Looking for Angel

Rachel hovered at the corner of the office, watching Jane work at her desk across the room. That morning she'd asked Rachel for help in finding her old asylum friend – Angel Adlam, whose medical file was now in Rachel's hand. She had made enough progress in the search before noon to speak to her young friend about it. The hard part would be telling her where Angie was now.

First, she'd found out a few crucial details that Jane hadn't brought up in therapy – namely, Angie's involvement with Jonathan Crane. She'd been charged with kidnapping a young man in her class as a teen, and was treated by Crane for some obsessive qualities. It didn't appear that he had experimented on her in the same way he'd experimented on Jane; what, exactly, he'd done with Angel was curiously absent from her records. There were a lot of question marks in her file regarding her time at Arkham. Rachel made a note to get answers from the only man who had them, just as soon as she had the chance.

After the fire, Jim Gordon had overseen their admittance to Gotham City General. Both girls suffered from smoke inhalation, and Angie had also broken her leg in the jump from the second floor of the house. After surgery to implant a piece of metal into the shattered bone, she'd been transferred to Wellwood Mental Health in Burlington, Vermont. It was expensive care, and it had been paid for by some anonymous donor; Rachel didn't know who was responsible, but it was someone generous and modest. If she didn't know better, she'd suspect Bruce Wayne – it was just the sort of thing he would do, but in this case, Rachel didn't see how he could have. Before their conversation in the bookstore, he hadn't known Jane and Angie even existed.

Now came the tricky part. If Angie were still being treated in Vermont, getting the phone number for the care facility would be a piece of cake. As an employee of the DA's office, Jane would have no trouble getting through the switchboard. The problem was that Angie _wasn't _at Wellwood anymore, nor even in touch with the doctors who had released her. Following the trail she'd left on her way out, Rachel had found the short-term jobs she'd had all over the city, and the one she'd quit this summer. Having the good fortune to catch that last employer on the phone, she'd learned that Angie's mother had died suddenly; Angie had left her job and the city to attend the funeral and sell the business. To her employer's surprise, she had opted to keep the business, and they'd never spoken again.

So, Angel Adlam had been in Gotham for months, and Jane had no idea.

Rachel wasn't looking forward to explaining why Jane's closest friend would come home without contacting her. She knew how much the friendship had meant to Jane, and how much it had taken to ask for her help. Steeling herself for tears and confusion, Rachel started across the office.

"Hey, Councilor, can I get a minute?" Harvey asked at her back, startling her.

"Harvey," she said, momentarily annoyed. Relief soon took over. "Can I get your help on something?"

"Of course," he said. Lifting an eyebrow, he followed her lead as she stepped behind the water cooler. "What seems to be troubling you?"

"Jane asked me to do something for her today, and I did it." She peered over his shoulder to Jane's desk; she still seemed oblivious to Rachel's attention.

"Okay," Harvey said when she didn't elaborate. "Was it something I should be concerned about?"

Rachel shot him an irritated glance. "No, Councilor, of course not. She asked me to find out about her friend…"

"Oh," he said, snapping his fingers and squinting into the distance. "Uh, Angela…Angie, something?"

"Angel, actually," she said. "Angel Adlam-"

"Adlam?" A light clicked on in Harvey's memory, it seemed. "Of Adlam Tailoring?"

"Yeah," she said, surprised. "You know her?"

"I know the company," he answered. "You don't grow up in Gotham aspiring to be a lawyer without knowing a good tailor or two. I seem to remember the business declining in the last few years…?"

"Yeah, I think right around the time Angie went into Arkham. Not sure on the details about the company, though. The main concern is Angel – she's back in town, and she's been here for a long time. Jane doesn't know."

"Oh," he said blankly. Another light went on and he said, "Oh, I see. Any idea why Jane doesn't know?"

"_No,_" Rachel said emphatically. "That's what I need your help on. How do I tell her that her best friend is…"

"Ostensibly hiding from her?" Harvey turned to look back at Jane himself. "I don't know."

After a moment of nothing further, Rachel gave him a withering look. "Thanks, Mr. Dent. You've been a great help."

Harvey turned back to smile at her sarcasm. "Any chance you could talk to this Angie first?"

"I guess I could…I'm not sure where exactly she is right now." Rachel shuffled through the file, hoping an address would magically fly out.

"Does she still have control of the company?" Harvey asked. Rachel nodded. "That should be easy enough to find. Doubtful she'd have much luck making ends meet by keeping the business a secret." He glanced at his watch. "Want me to come with? If it gets awkward, I could always have a suit made."

"No," she said absently. "Yeah, maybe. Let me find out where it is first – I might want an escort. And you might want a suit."

"Understood," he said, affecting a salute. "Now – can I get a minute?"

"Oh, you were serious. Sure, what do you need?"

"I've got a date to question Jon Crane about his chemical dealings in a few days. Any idea of what Jane will want to do?"

"Ah, nothing?" Rachel guessed. "You know she won't want to be present, certainly not at Arkham Asylum…"

"Of course not," he agreed. "But I thought we might bring him here. See, she'll have to testify against him eventually – once we figure out how to charge him." Harvey frowned. "That mysterious benefactor of his certainly mucked up any paper trail those experiments would have made…"

"Why don't we keep contact between them to a minimum," Rachel said. "I don't see any reason to upset Jane more than necessary."

"I guess you're right," he said. "I just thought…maybe she should get used to seeing him now. That way she won't get overwhelmed on the stand."

"Hmm. You might be right about that, but let's handle one crisis at a time. First, we talk to Angel-"

"Then, we have lunch. _Extra _long."

"Right," Rachel laughed. "Then, depending on how Angel is, we may or may not have to break Jane's heart."

"I don't think so," Harvey said, frowning more deeply. "I don't care what this Angel's issues are, I'm not going to let her ruin Jane. We'll just have to come to some agreement."

"Okay," Rachel said with dubious trust in his sensitivity. "I hope for Angel's sake that it doesn't come to _that._"

"Me too," Harvey agreed. "My negotiations skills are deadly."

They watched Jane work for another moment; she remained oblivious to the plans being made for her, smiling with a brightness they hadn't before seen on her as they made their way to Harvey's office. Neither of them looked forward to dampening her newfound high spirits.

* * *

Human, Needs to be Loved

"Come with me," he said, "to the _roof."_

It had been close to four in the morning when Angie'd heard the knock at her kitchen door. It was lucky that she'd been asleep on the sofa – the sound had been so light and clipped, she doubted she would have heard it from the bedroom. She'd known who would be waiting on the other side as soon as she opened her eyes. Who else would come calling at such an hour?

"Morning," she'd said, hoping she didn't look too much like she'd just rolled off the couch. If he was appraising her, he didn't show it. He stepped past her, waving two young companions absently down the wooden steps to the parking lot. They left without a word.

"Who're they?" she asked.

The man, Mr. Jay, turned to face her; his eyes were still like charcoal smudges, but the rest of his face paint was inexplicably faded. "Just some employees of mine," he answered airily. "I sent them _home_ for the nigh_t_."

_For the night? _Angie had a strange feeling, somewhere between foreboding and excitement, from the idea that he might be here until sunrise. "They walking home?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, to her surprise. In response to the look on her face, he smiled. "They do what I tell them to."

"And what brings you here at this hour?" Angie smiled, to make it clear that she wasn't annoyed. Something about this guy told her to pick her battles.

"Oh, I was in the neighborhood. Took a, hah…_gamble,_" he said, giggling at some internal joke. He wandered through the kitchen to the living room, lifting random pieces of fabric, not really interested until he came to the shears. He tested their considerable weight in a gloved hand. "I wondered if you'd be, a-wa_ke_." He stopped moving, watched as she followed him into the room and sat on the sofa. "I see you _weren't…_"

Angie noted that he didn't take a seat with her; he remained on his feet, spinning the heavy scissors on his fingertips. She waved a hand dismissively, though she doubted if he was terribly concerned for her. "Forget about it," she said. "I'm awake now. How can I help you?"

That was when he invited her to the rooftop.

Angie had never been up there before – no reason to, really. She didn't often take time to appreciate the view of Gotham's slums spread out before her in all their dirty glory; she was surprised by what she saw tonight. _This morning,_ she amended, seeing the faint glow on the eastern horizon. The view was actually interesting. Almost _beautiful_ – the grime of the city kept that at bay, but just barely. The streetlights twinkled like the fading stars above as the sun steadily rose, and the noise of people in the surrounding apartment buildings just happened to be friendly and happy – kids watching cartoons while their parents slept, murmured conversations, all augmented by the whisking of cars as they passed underneath them. Clotheslines strung over courtyards swayed in the breeze, just starting to be illuminated by pale daylight. It was still night, but the next day was coming closer every minute; Angie could turn around and see a black hard sky on one side with the softness of dawn on the other. Scratch that _almost; _this was beautiful.

"Come over here," he said. A hand on her elbow guided her to the nighttime side of the building. The ledge here was less than a foot high. "Look," he said. He waved his violet glove over the vision, and Angie saw traffic in a perpetual ribbon of golden headlights and scarlet tails cut through the city, from her bottom-rung neighborhood all the way to the Palisades. Traffic never let up in Gotham; it lessened in the night, but it was never truly _quiet_. One just got used to the noise. "Look at _all _those _people_, scurrying around. When they're, ah, far _a-way_ like that…they're no_t –_ really - _real. _You can do anything to them. When they're _far…away._"

"What are you saying?" Maybe it was the fact that she'd just been shaken out of sleep, but the evening – _morning _– was taking a surreal turn. She had no idea what he was talking about.

"C'mere. _Come here,"_ he said softly, stepping onto the ledge. He took her hands gently, leading her to join him. He hushed her protests. "Look again," he said. "Loo-_k_ until you _see_ what _I_ see."

Angie looked, focused as he stepped closer to her and slipped an arm around her waist. He held her steady as she swayed; he was inexplicably solid up here, on this narrow ledge. It felt like miles above the ground. As her reflexes jerked her in her uneasiness, he held her tightly against him. She was sure it was innocent, but she could feel his heart beating at her back. Down below them people scurried, as he said; everywhere she looked, she could see people, small and faceless, all doing different things in exactly the same way.

"They're safe down there," he whispered in her ear. "They _think_ they're safe, down there. Loo-_k_ at them, Angel, _look_ at their bodies, they move like _an-i-mals_. Herbivores. Nature's born vic-tims. And still, _ev_ery-body thinks they're _on top. _Y'know, later…if you're ever wonderin-_g_. About…me. Look down on the city. _That's why._"

Angie looked down on the country's largest metropolis; densely populated, and still she had no friends. Even if she'd been on the street, she knew those very people would still be _far away_. Everyone had the same problem, and they believed it kept them safe. Distance. It hadn't saved Angie from Daniel.

_You can do anything to them, when they're far away…and everyone's far away._

Distance.

_It won't save them from him,_ she thought of the man at her side. It was just a suspicion, really – but could a man who looked like this possibly be normal? She wondered what harm he could do, in a city that already belonged to a Bat. This man who held her aloft above the streets now…she suspected he would change the city. He seemed like an okay guy, so it must be for the better.

"What's your name?" she asked for the last time.

"You know my name," he said quietly. She turned to look at him; he looked at the city. "I left you my card."

"Joker," she said softly. As a human name, it felt foreign on her tongue.

Now his black eyes met hers. "Pleased to meet you."

Her hand covered his, on her waist. Angie felt something crumble under her fingers, like mud. She meant to ask him what he'd dirtied her gloves with already; when he flexed his fingers, rusty flakes stuck to her palm, and the desire to question him left her. He took her hand in his and spun her to face him. Her heart jumped. He held on tightly to her wrist.

"I won't let you fall," he said slowly and clearly, as if to a dull child.

She let out a shriek as he pushed her back; reflexively she clung to him and braced her feet on the ledge. He held his grip on her, holding her above the streets with seemingly little effort. The Joker laughed, amused at her terror. She locked her arm, and steadied her breathing. He leaned back, for balance. They teetered on the edge of the city, dependant on each other. This was a dangerous game. Admittedly, her stakes were higher; still, she played along. Her eyes focused on his, blurring with the intensity of the moment.

Then the moment broke as he lurched backward, pulling her with him. She stumbled off the ledge and he caught her before she could knock them both to the ground. She was breathing heavily, still feeling the dizzying height in her veins, the cool brightening air on her trembling arms and legs. Joker laughed again, breathless, and she laughed along herself.

He still held her hand in his. Her trembling hadn't stopped. Swallowing, she straightened. Sobering, they stared at each other in the pale light of the new sun until Angie broke the steady gaze and wiped her sweating hand on her shirt. It left a dark red smear.

"When will I see you again?" she asked. She glanced up furtively under black lashes.

First he tilted his head, and then he looked around, seemingly for answers. After such a display of confidence, he seemed almost awkward now; it was a strange juxtaposition. He shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant.

"Soon…_ish_," he said casually. He started his shuffle to the stairs, walking backwards, still seemingly incapable of falling. "Let's get you back to bed."

Angie followed him; she took a last glance at the city, seeing the streetlamps fade under the lightening sky. She knew what was happening, suspected it wasn't healthy. For just one night, she decided she didn't care. He left her in her bedroom, comically tucked in, and didn't make a move to join her.

_You know my name _

_Joker _

That morning, she slept with a familiar beating in her heart.

* * *

**So, Joker has some very, shall-we-say, _personal_ plans for Angie. And that is all I can say about it at this time ;) **

**Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews! And thanks also those who add me to alerts and favourites, though it'd be cool to hear reviews from you guys too. The song at the beginning is a necessary classic; I had to. **

**See you again soon.**

**-nH**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_Behind the façade of the city_

_We felt invincible!_

_But in the cold glare of the video lens _

_We are merely tangents, connected at one point in time._

-Extropy: _Tangents_

Intensity 

"You sure you got the right address?" Harvey said, frowning up at the bleak neighborhood outside the car. "This doesn't look like the appropriate area for a bespoke tailor."

"I doubt she's still _bespoke,"_ Rachel answered. "If that means what I assume it means. She just took over the business from her mother, and it was failing before she got to it…"

Her tone suggested more confidence than she felt. It was a bit of a rough neighborhood, to be honest. Rachel couldn't imagine many ladies or gentlemen making the trip almost all the way to the docks to have a suit made. At her age, Angie couldn't possibly have the benefit of her mother's experience. Clearly, this was the best she could afford.

"Well, let's venture forth." Harvey climbed out of the passenger's side with an air of distrust for this entire part of Gotham. "D'ya think she's home?"

"What did I tell you?" she said. "Didn't I tell you we should call first?"

"I didn't want to warn her off!" he insisted. "I don't know why, but I get the feeling she might not be comfortable with the DA and ADA in her store."

Rachel lifted an eyebrow. "Think she's up to something illegal?"

"I don't know, but I doubt we'd find out if we announced our arrival in advance. Is this the place?"

They both looked up to the brick building, crumbling at the corners with wooden fire escapes hanging over the back alley. This didn't appear to be a place of business.

"It is," Rachel said. "I guess she works out of her apartment."

Rachel couldn't speak for Harvey, but she felt painfully conspicuous here, with her classy business attire and ladylike shoes climbing the creaking wood steps to the back door. He seemed unconcerned, but she knew he had a great game face. She'd seen Angie's profile picture in her Arkham file; he'd need that game face if she hadn't made a full recovery. Anyone with her history was someone to be wary of.

"I think we're here," he said. They stopped in front of a peeling purple door, a quaint metal _5_ hanging askew under the curtained window. A small placard read "Adlam Tailoring Company" in gold leaf on black. _Something from her mother's place,_ Rachel thought, and felt a pang of pity for this young woman. Angie was so close to her own age, and had pulled Jane through the roughest patch in Gotham's history so far; to face such constant adversity must take a toll, she thought. Squaring her shoulders, she knocked.

The sound of rustling inside somehow broadcasted hesitance inside the apartment; Rachel hoped that wasn't because the girl never got customers, but it was probably the case. As her footsteps approached on the other side, Harvey bent unexpectedly to scoop something up from under the _Welcome_ mat.

"What's this?" he mumbled as the door opened.

"Hi," Rachel said cheerily, hoping to cover Harvey's sudden interest in whatever litter had accumulated on the small balcony. "Are you Angel Adlam?"

"Yes," the young woman said uncertainly. "Can I help you?"

Sneaking a glance to her side, Rachel saw that Harvey's find had magically disappeared into thin air.

"We sure hope so," Harvey said. "I'm Harvey Dent, and this is ADA Rachel Dawes. We wondered if we could talk to you for a few minutes?"

He was using his best charming tone, but Angie seemed wary. She wore the expression with the kind of ease that only comes from repeated use. She was good-looking, in an almost uncomfortable way; one of those people you suddenly realize is nice to look at, despite some design flaws. The long, tangled brown hair; the pale skin, almost sickly, so light it was probable that it never saw the sun. Those features, along with a few others, would have made for unattractiveness if taken alone; somehow, together they worked. Her big eyes were the color of red amber, and it probably helped the picture. She looked tired; there were shadows around her eyes, but she wore that with some kind of grace too.

"The DA," she said. She stood aside, holding the door open. "Come on in. Please excuse the mess, I'm just sorting through some materials."

"Thank-you," Rachel said, as they slipped past the girl.

Angie locked the door behind them. "Raccoons," she said in way of explanation. Rachel and Harvey nodded knowingly, but Rachel was sure he was as confused by that as she was. "Please, have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely, thanks," Harvey said. He pulled out a chair for Rachel. As the girl laid down spoons and sugar, Rachel wondered at the manners she displayed; odd, for this part of town. Especially considering she'd been committed for kidnapping, a move classically considered to be in poor taste. A minute later Angie was seated across the small table from them. The kitchen was cozy, sunlight filtering through gauzy paneled curtains that the girl had clearly made. They were pretty; she was not without talent.

A moment of quiet smiling went by. It was uncomfortable on Angie's end, and seemingly vacant on Harvey's.

"So, what can I do for you?" she said finally.

"Right," Harvey said. "Jane Savary. You were mates in Arkham Asylum, weren't you?"

Rachel looked to him with shock; she'd expected a bit more finesse than that. "Uh, Harvey-"

"Yeah," Angie said. She seemed surprised by the question, but not alarmed. "Why do you ask? Is she okay?"

"Oh, of course," he assured her. "Nothing like that. She works for me now."

"Oh," Angie said. "That's good, good for her. So she's alright? I saw Dr. Crane was arrested a while ago, was he bothering her?"

"No," he said, speaking with kindness and gravity. "She's fine, just…"

"She's having trouble…being comfortable in her own skin," Rachel said. "She needs someone close. We love her, she does great work and she's a great person. But there were things that happened to her, things that separate her from us." Rachel floundered for a moment, searching for words. "I know living in Arkham must have been horrible, but it's not something I can talk about because I never went through it. _You've _been through it. You survived, and you made sure Jane survived too."

Angie was silent. Steam rose from her teacup, veiling her features. From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Harvey study the girl, who eventually looked into the hot liquid, away from prying eyes.

"She needs to see you," Rachel said. She couldn't see what the girl was thinking, so far away. "Maybe, you need to see her, too."

Angie looked up, and her eyes met Rachel's; she felt a jolt. There was intensity in the girl, unexpected and bright like fork lightning. Rachel wondered if her last statement had been a mistake.

"That would be nice," Angie said quietly. Her tone didn't match her eyes, but neither Harvey nor Rachel knew what it meant. "Do you know where I can reach her?"

"Of course," Harvey said, finally chiming in again. He took a business card from his jacket pocket. "This is the DA's office, and this one is my direct line. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate." He smiled disarmingly as she accepted the card; when their fingers grazed each other, Rachel saw him pull back as if shocked. Angie didn't seem to notice.

A few minutes later, the two attorneys were headed down the fire escape and three unfinished cups of tea sat, still hot, on the kitchen table. The girl had seemed a bit numb as they'd left. Harvey had done his best to make her aware of his willingness to help her; with all that had happened to her, it would have been surprising if she'd accepted him with complete trust anyway.

He waited until they were safely ensconced in the car before he let his breath out in a low whistle. "Hmm," he said.

"What?"

"That girl. Did you see it?"

When he turned to Rachel, she saw a strange new facet to his expression; in all their time together, she rarely saw him like this. He was shaken, but in the grip of strong interest.

"See what?" Rachel lifted an eyebrow. "Should I be worried about you and her running away together?" She was joking. Mostly.

He laughed, and that expression immediately disappeared. "Yes," he said, sobering. "I have a weakness for emotionally detached kidnappers with social issues. Be warned."

Rachel rolled her eyes, starting the car. As she pulled out of their space, she saw the scrap of paper Harvey had freed from under the mat earlier. "What have you got there?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. He held it up for her to see; it was a playing card, wavy from water damage and torn around the corners. The suit was no longer visible; nothing was left but a fancy letter _J_.

* * *

Why So…?

The meat locker was cold, as meat lockers often are. Joker held the video camera steady with both hands; thinking better of it, he switched to one. Trembling on screen served his purpose far better than steadiness.

"Tell them your name," he told the man, instructing him as a preschool teacher might instruct a class.

The man tied to the chair shivered, and the Joker began to laugh even before Mr. Dress-Up opened his mouth.

"B-Brian…Douglas," the captive answered.

He was a grown man in costume, in many ways a lot less reasonable than the real thing. His cape was sewn from some kind of blanket, and the body armor was made from sporting goods. The Joker couldn't believe that anyone would go into such imitations with any illusion of safety; he'd found the man skulking around the local drug dealers in a high school parking lot, armed with a semi-automatic weapon and a serious lack of common sense. Days like these truly brought a smile to his face.

"Are you the real Batman?" the Joker asked with a note of wondrous glee.

"No," Brian Douglas admitted weakly.

"No?"

"No…"

"_No?"_ he giggled. "Then why do you dress_ up _like him_?"_ He snatched the flimsy rubber mask from the man's head, revealing some joke of a guy with nothing left to protect him. The mask dangled from one ear-tip in front of the camera's lens; Joker taunted the man and the public with the weakness of it all – an empty mask, easily removed by anyone willing to get close enough to the legend. He laughed on at that thought; _legend, _indeed.

"He…he's a symbol. That we don't have to be afraid of scum like you."

"Aw…" the Joker simpered in mock pity. "You do, Brian. You _really _do_."_

He growled as he grabbed a fistful of the man's sweat-slick hair in his free hand; Brian's eyes squeezed shut, a simple coward without his mask and his band of fake Batmen. Joker slapped him lightly, encouraging him to open his eyes.

"So you think," he continued, slapping as the man cried, "Batman has made Gotham a _better _place?"

A shaky nod took the place of a real answer as Brian Douglas continued to avoid looking right at the Joker. _Just some family man, some hockey coach, some poor fucking loser, and he's about to die for someone else's heroism. _The Joker almost felt pity for him then. Al-_most_.

Still, this makeshift hero couldn't look him in the eye.

"Look at me," he said. When the man didn't immediately comply, something in him dropped out and something _bigger _and _darker _and _far – more – dangerous _took its place. _"Look - at - me!"_

And he did.

Terror lit his eyes as he realized just how close his end really was. It wasn't going to be the way he'd imagined; not old age, in a bed surrounded by loved ones. Not even in an alley with a gunshot wound from some scumbag's pistol, rain pummeling the blood from his body as he reflected on all the good he'd helped Batman do for this city.

Brian Douglas hadn't accomplished anything heroic since he'd donned that cape and those hockey pads. Nothing but getting caught by a killer clown before he'd even had a chance to scare the teenaged weed dealers out of his daughter's school parking lot.

The Joker saw these realizations flow across the man's face in a cold flood, and smiled.

He turned the camera on himself. "This is how _c-raaazy _Batman's made Gotham," he said to the city. "You want _order_ in Gotham? Batman must take off his mask and turn himself in. Oh," he continued casually, "and every day he doesn't…people _will _die. Starting to-night." He paused. "I'm a man of my wor-_d_."

Laughter bubbled from his throat as he returned his attention to the man in the chair. He left the camera running as Brian screamed with ragged breath and bled all over his leather gloves; the Joker went on with the cruelty of knives and mock kindness, stroking the man's torn face every few seconds. He gasped with mean pleasure as his knife sank through Brian's skin. It satisfied that big, dark, dangerous thing that had crawled inside him when he'd been such a wee little boy. Well…it _almost _satisfied it.

When the blood stopped pumping, and the hoarse cries had ended, the Joker played back his performance. He panted with the exertion of the kill, and he panted with the joy of inflicting that immense pain on another man. That glow would fade soon enough, he knew, but at least now he could introduce himself to the general public with aplomb.

"Gotham City," he announced to no one. "There is _no _place…like _home." _

* * *

Therapy 

When he closed his eyes, he remembered her quite clearly.

Her blond hair and blue eyes, terrified out of her mind; _blame my photographic memory_, he chuckled to himself.

"Is there something you find funny, Mr. Crane?" she asked. Harleen Quinzel sat across from him at a cold metal table, taking notes. He opened his eyes.

"Just thinking of the last time I saw you," he admitted. He wasn't prepared to tell her what, exactly, he found so amusing; he doubted she'd share his sense of humor. "You were just a student then. Seems you've done well for yourself, Harleen."

He waited for her to correct him, to tell him to address her as _Dr. Quinzel,_ but she didn't. He was pleased.

"I suppose I have," she allowed. Glancing up from her notes, she smiled at him. "Where was that?"

"The last place I saw you?" he clarified. "Gotham University. My last class." A pause, a charming smile for a disheartening memory. "Remember?"

Harleen narrowed her eyes in a show of forgetfulness, but he knew she hadn't really forgotten. Who could forget a day like that?

"I think so," she said, vaguely. "Why don't you refresh my memory?"

"Oh, I think you remember," he said. "It was spring, I believe, close to year-end exams."

"Yes…"

"There was an…unfortunate accident."

Now she smiled, looking directly at him. "Most accidents are easily prevented, you know."

He leaned forward, hoping to look suitably earnest. "It was a misunderstanding."

"You brought a gun to class…"

"It wasn't meant to go off," he said. "I never meant to hurt anyone, Harleen. I know you understand that. I remember you from that day. You were so understanding then…"

"Of course," she said. She caught herself, quieting. "I've always known, Mr. Crane-"

A well-placed wince cut her short; he pretended to catch her looking, and put a sheepish expression on his own face.

"Sorry," he said, humble. "I just wish I hadn't lost that privilege. To be called _Doctor…"_

"Of course," she said again. She really was _so _sympathetic – he could see her right at home in a women's shelter, maybe, or working with foster children. No, forget that, he realized; any jaded teens abandoned in their formative years would likely eat her alive. As he intended to do himself.

"I remember when I was a doctor," he mused on, hoping to draw her right along with him. "What's your favorite part of the job, Dr. Quinzel?"

This took no thought at all. "Helping people," she said with blinding naivety. _Holy cliché,_ he thought. "And understanding different thought processes. I've never believed any two people process the world in exactly the same way."

That was a surprise, he had to admit. 'Helping people' was a page right out of the do-gooder's handbook. 'Understanding' was something altogether unexpected from a woman like Harleen.

"Look at me, babbling on," she said. _Is she blushing?_ "I apologize. Please continue."

Crane was at a loss for words, somehow. Looking off into the distant past, he spoke of the first thing that crossed his mind. "When I was admin here," he said thoughtfully, "I had a special wing set aside for just that kind of research. It interests me, too." He paused, sincerely curious. "I wonder if it's still here."

"Maybe," she said. "Where was it?"

Crane looked up into her eyes, trying to gauge her sincerity; her enthusiasm for figuring people out was surprising, but she was still consistent in her unprofessional honesty with her patient. He wondered if having been present for a school shooting perpetrated by her professor had given her some kind of easy pass to a Phd in psychology.

"Part of the lowest level," he said. "It went unlabelled during the renovations, but when we discovered it a few years ago, it was marked _Corridor F."_

"Lowest level…" Harleen said thoughtfully. "It's vacant now. There might be some things in storage there…would you have any interest in seeing it again?"

Crane was speechless for a moment; he couldn't believe his luck. Suspicion set in when he realized that men in his position were rarely this lucky, and therefore it was likely that this was a test.

"I doubt it would be possible, Dr. Quinzel," he said coolly, retaining his smile in case she was being sincere.

"I'm sure it would be," she said casually. "It might even help you, seeing if your old haunt has survived without you." _It hasn't,_ her expression seemed to say. An exercise in humility, then? Whatever it was, if she was serious about taking him there…

…_then bless this woman,_ he thought.

"Of course," he said. "I would be interested in exploring that again."

Harleen smiled; it was an odd mix of professional coolness and adolescent admiration. Seeing the expression on her face, Crane realized why her behavior toward him was so inconsistent – he had been her teacher long before he was her patient. She wasn't quite the type to forget the dynamic of such a relationship, let alone allow a reversal.

"I'll see what I can do," she said.

Crane smiled, by all appearances accepting her generosity as a therapeutic interest. He couldn't remember therapy ever having been quite so productive before.

* * *

Checking In

"So," Bruce said, "how did Harvey like the book? I forgot to ask him at dinner the other night."

Rachel put her pen down and looked up to see him looming over her table in the courthouse cafeteria. "I haven't given it to him yet," she said. Her tone was tolerant of Bruce's nosiness.

"Saving it for a special occasion?" He gestured inquiringly to the seat next to her, and she nodded. He sat, glancing down to her notes briefly. There wasn't enough time in the casual glimpse to have retained much, but he got the basic idea of what her day looked like – she'd be questioning Lau soon.

Sensing his interest, Rachel stacked her papers neatly and slid them into her briefcase. It wasn't an act of concealment; the thought of him covertly scoping her schedule offended her, he realized. If he would just ask…he amended his way of thinking.

"Dealing with Lau today?" he said.

Rachel nodded. "You should see this guy," she said. "Smugness is just a way of life for him. Though…I guess you already _have_ seen him." She looked up at him after appearing to study her iced tea. "Shipping a whole man overnight from Hong Kong must have broken the bank."

Bruce smiled with his easy grace, secretly more pleased than he appeared. "Consider it an investment."

Rachel's tense smile from dinner a week ago resurfaced now; he thought back to what the subject matter had been then. "An investment in what?" she asked. "Gotham's future, or…?"

_Yes,_ he remembered now. At dinner with Harvey and Natasha – his girl du jour – the discussion had of course turned to Batman. Natasha had been unexpectedly useful in bringing up Harvey's aptitude for heroism. Then he had taken Rachel's hand, and confirmed that he was indeed accountable to her during the night. And she had smiled at Bruce, uneasily.

"Both," he said. His hand crept to hers, but refrained from touching. A moment passed between them, her blue eyes unreadable. He sometimes wished they were the only people in the world – it was unfortunate that he had to keep up his appearance of rich carelessness while she was free to pursue her virtuousness with honesty and fervor. His mask was, he mused, the only thing that came between them. Like she'd said herself, more than a year ago.

"Bruce, I-" she started, drawing her hand back. She stopped herself from speaking further; he wondered what she'd meant to say. "Thank-you," she finished simply.

He continued to smile, defenseless against her but not displeased. "For what?"

"Getting Lau. And Crane," she added, finally looking back to him. "Especially Crane."

"Not a problem, Rachel. You know I'll do anything to keep Gotham safe." _Anything…_

After another quiet second, Rachel made a show of putting herself together, snapping shut her briefcase and finishing her drink.

"So," Bruce went on airily, intending to lighten the mood before she left for the day, "when do I get to meet this girl of yours?"

"Jane?" she asked. "Whenever you'd like, I suppose. She's a bit shy, so I don't think a formal debut would be her style…"

"I'll see her at the fundraiser, then," he said with finality. Rachel looked at him in surprise. "Most of your office will be there, won't they?"

"Not really…"

"Well, then, it's time I invited someone who does work with you. She's a rising star. Isn't she?"

"She is." Rachel smiled now. It had a tentative quality to it that Bruce forced himself to ignore.

"Then I look forward to seeing her there."

Rachel nodded, accepting the generosity on Jane's behalf. "Thanks a lot, Bruce. For everything."

Bruce rose with her, taking her hand in his for a moment before letting her go. He didn't go so far as to kiss it; he knew better than anyone how many unseen eyes could be on them at any given time. She would have become bashful, anyway. He watched her go, as he always did, with a pang in his heart. She obviously had a lot on her mind. He looked forward to the day when she would return from work to a place they shared, come home to him, and tell him about her day and all the good she'd done for Gotham over dinner and drinks.

It was a messy situation now, but he had to thank Harvey for being the one to make Gotham strong enough to survive without Batman. It wouldn't be long before that was true, he knew. Right now Rachel and Harvey might be together, but when Batman was finally unnecessary, they would work it out. He knew they would. He only hoped no one would get hurt.

* * *

**Thanks for reading once again! And thanks for all the wicked reviews - nothing makes a girl want to write more than getting awesome reviews. I hope y'all enjoyed this latest effort; seeing Angie from an outside perspective is different, considering how sane these two people are in relation to almost everyone else in her life. If you're at all familiar with the movie, then you know...stuff's about to go off. The song at the beginning is an obscure favourite. **

**-nH**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

_Baby doll I recognize_

_You're a hideous thing inside_

_If ever there was a lucky kind it's_

_You…_

-TV On the Radio: _Wolf Like Me_

Damage…Control

Since Angel had caught his home video on the news, she'd found herself considering an address change.

_What point would there be, _she wondered. After this display, the Joker would have to be crazy to visit her again. Because, of course, any sane young woman would have called the police the second she'd seen his face on television. Moving all her things now would be a waste of time and energy; she found herself regretting the fact that she'd never see his painted face again, but it was probably for the best.

There'd be no point in calling the police either, now that she'd decided he'd never return. This would all fade into her past like nothing important, like all he'd ever been was some guy who'd paid her bills for a while. No point in making this anything else. No point at all.

He didn't bother to knock this time. He probably didn't want to give her the chance to decide not to answer. Angie was putting a dress together that evening; a nice distraction, and easier on her kidneys than drinking. After a few too many needles jabbed into fingers and misplaced stitches, she decided she was ready for a coffee break. Her scream was inevitable; she was on her way to the kitchen when she spied him. He was startlingly close, to say the least; he leaned casually against the doorway, turning a knife in his fingers like a magic coin. Luckily for the Joker, this neighborhood was used to hearing young women in varying states of panic. His hand shot out to cover her mouth all the same; she quieted, eyes wide, trembling. He laughed and pocketed his blade.

"You gave _me_ a fright-_t_," he said. "Screaming like that." He tentatively removed his hand, ready to snatch her head in his claws again if she should make a startling move.

"Sorry," she said simply, blood pounding in her ears. "You scared me."

Indeed, her pulse seemed to be going a mile a minute; Joker could see it pumping under the tender skin of her throat. "Shh," he said, stroking a gloved finger down her neck, like he would to a cat. His tongue flicked out briefly, from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Even if I was some kind of _threat _to you…screaming probably wouldn't, ah, _do_ you much goo_d_."

"Right," she said, her fallback answer. She tried to gauge his intentions for her; he didn't have a weapon in his hand, and those mysterious young men who followed him around were absent today. She realized just what those men did for him now. The word _'henchmen' _floated across her mind, and a giggle escaped her before she could reign it in. The Joker lifted an eyebrow at that. "Sorry," she said.

"No need for _a-pol-o-gies_," he answered. She tensed when he moved, but he was only taking a seat on the couch. He patted the spot beside him invitingly.

"Come to explain some things?" she guessed, sitting.

That gave him a laugh. "No, no, no. No. I al-_ready_ explained all I'm _going_ to, Angel-face. No, to-_day­_ is for…well, I have some plans later, but right _now _is for, ah, catchin-_g_ u-_p."_

Angie nodded, looking away. She thought of the screams on the tape and became frightened all over again. "You killed a man," she said before her self-control kicked in. She clapped a hand over her mouth, turning away from him but not rising. "I'm sorry," she ground out between chattering teeth. Her arms wrapped themselves tightly around her, fingers clamped white-knuckled, digging bruises into her skin. If he didn't do something soon, she was afraid she'd descend into tearful, and wasted, pleas for her life.

"Hey," he said, laughing. She felt his hand sweep up her back; a soothing motion from anyone else, but she jumped when he touched her. "Re-_lax._ I'm not going to hurt you. Well," he went on, leaning forward, snaking his arm around her waist. He pulled her to him. "I can't make any long-term _promises_, really, but I'm not going to hurt you today." The Joker put his head next to hers, spoke into her ear. "Hey, Angel-fish, come on. I'm not going to hurt you. Look at me. _Look-"_

After seeing the tape of the last time he'd said that, Angie didn't need further prompts. She turned to him, glad she'd managed to keep tears at bay. He was close, leaning his forehead against hers. She felt his makeup on her skin. It felt cool and sticky; somehow, it was a comfort.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. His fingers touched her face, steadying her chin as her shaking subsided. "I don't need to, right now. _So_…don'_t_ _give_ me a reason."

Angie gave a tiny nod. He smiled, seeing her continue to meet his gaze. That was one thing about her that never trembled – she always looked at him bravely. He patted her cheek. "Good, good. Good girl."

He was so close now that his lips actually brushed against hers when he spoke; she gasped at the feeling. He didn't move back. He would move away soon, she knew, and this moment would be lost; or he would do something violent, something…_borderline _violent, maybe, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

_Is this really what you want? _some voice of sanity screamed inside her. _Is this the man you think you need?_

She closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of cold face-paint and colder air. Still, the Joker didn't move, and that moment stretched out while he did nothing and so did she; _how long can this last before someone breaks_, she wondered. He seemed to carry the fall chill with him, the damp smell of dead leaves in his hair and clothes. Angie realized she was shivering, and her hands were clasping his jacket collar, and her sense of the present slipped away.

It only lasted a second, and when her senses returned nothing had changed except for his hand on hers as it hesitated near his face. His hand was poised, ready to pull hers away. He still hovered close, watchful, quiet. Waiting. She felt her fingertips graze a scar, stop at his lips. He seemed more pensive than usual, no smiling witticisms. Almost serious.

"_Hey, _Angie…" he said, quiet. A moment passed with nothing but breathing; it wasn't blind or hot – just him rolling thoughts around his head, going through phrases like flash cards. _Wondering how best to affect me, _she thought, but she couldn't bring herself to push him away yet.

Then she heard those phantom screams; in her memory, the Joker's entire conversation with that _Bat-man_ came through in painful bits and pieces, and she shrank away slowly. He let her go. She rose without looking at him. From the corner of her eye, she saw him leave his seat too.

She tried to compose herself, smoothing her skirt down with shaking hands. She wiped the residue of his paint off her forehead. The Joker was on his feet, swaying tentatively between her and the door. When she finally looked back at him, she saw the strange expression on his face; some combination of sullen and inquisitive. His gloved hands twisted together, until he realized how closely he was being observed and put his clown face back on. He clicked his tongue, flashing a semblance of a smile.

"Tsk _tsk_," he said. "_You_ are going to make me _late._" He winked at her; she knew anyone else would have been disturbed, but it put a small, girlish smile on her face. "I've got a date with a _dis_-trict attorney_." _

Angie lost her smile. "Harvey Dent?"

"Uh, _yeah_. I thought I'd start with Gotham's _own_ DA and, ah, spiral _ou-t_ from there. Going all the way to Metropolis would be kinda _in-e-fficient._"

"Oh," she said thoughtfully. Her voice trembled, and she was sure the Joker could hear that. "You don't seem his type."

"Oh?" he said, amused. "And what is the _dear _DA's, ah…_typ-e_?"

Angie was shrugging an answer when the Joker turned at some sound on the porch; she looked past him to the kitchen door just in time to see a shape loom. When the figure knocked, the Joker faced her with a new look in his eye.

"Speak of the devil," he said.

Angie's gaze shot, panicked, between the door and the Joker; she wondered if she should ask him for permission to answer it. _Don't be fucking ridiculous, this is your home!_ Before she could ask, he made a fluid gesture of assent. When she stepped past him, their bodies nearly touched again; she risked a look at his face, and saw him watching her. He moved back, ever polite.

Her next visitor was even more unexpected than her first.

"Mr. Dent," she said, and inwardly flinched. If the Joker had a date later on with the DA, then some form of awful luck had delivered his dinner early. Her apartment was about to become a major crime scene.

Mr. Dent, oblivious to the danger, smiled his pure smile and held his hand out. She took it, not knowing if she should try to warn him off or if that would only awaken some hero's instinct and force him to stay.

"Miss Adlam," he said warmly. "Do you mind if I come in?"

There was no sound behind her, and no indication of terror in Harvey's eyes; she snuck a peek and found the Joker apparently absent. If he had left by any other route, she would have heard him. He was still there, somewhere.

By the time she'd turned back to complain of the mess, Harvey had already finagled himself inside. For the second time that evening she found herself startlingly close to an uninvited man. She gasped and found the subtle scent of cologne in her nose; it was deliberately pleasant and necessarily artificial. Everything the Joker was not.

"Of course," she said. Wrong answer, and too late. She closed the door behind him. "How can I help you?"

"I just…wanted to chat," he admitted. She had no idea what that could mean from a man like him; what could he possibly want with a girl like her?

A flash of color drew her attention to the living room, but luckily Mr. Dent was already seating himself at the kitchen table, facing away from her guest's hiding place. She had no choice but to sit across from him, offer tea. Make conversation, keep her eyes open to the danger. She couldn't see him, but she knew he could see her. The Joker was exceptionally effective at hiding in plain sight.

Damage…Control, part 2

Angie looked a bit more rested this evening, Harvey noted. Her hair was held back in a chaotic ponytail and her face was free of makeup, but her eyes seemed brighter, less suspicious. Though, there was some curiousity as to his presence, he could see. He waited politely as she boiled water for tea. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he'd have plenty of time to spend here before the party started.

"That's a lovely dress you're wearing," he said.

She turned with a polite smile. She was definitely going to be one tough nut to crack. "Thanks," she said, sitting opposite him and pouring tea. "I made it a while ago. Saves me money on shopping."

"I'll bet," he said. He opened his mouth to say what he'd come to say – start the long conversation, really – and realized he had no idea where to begin. He took a sip of tea instead. Angie's eyes flickered unsettlingly between his eyes and some focal point in the living room. He turned to follow her gaze; nothing there but a mess of fabrics and machines.

"I'm far sighted," she said in way of explanation. She smiled sheepishly. "It helps my eyes to focus on something a bit further away sometimes."

"I see," he said. "Angel, I'll be straight with you. I came here tonight to talk about something specific, something that could be serious."

The first day she'd met Jonathan Crane, he'd said that; _I'll be straight with you, Angie._ She blinked that memory away and faced this with what she hoped was a convincing smile.

"What is it?" she said.

Harvey was silent a moment, watching her. Then he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of white cardboard. Looking at it a second, he finally laid it on the table and pushed it toward her. She leaned forward to get a look, though she already knew what it would be.

"What's that?" she asked. She felt that a rather unpleasant conversation was about to begin.

"You tell me, Angie," he said. "I found it under your welcome mat when Miss Dawes and I came by last week." He paused a moment. "Have you seen the news today?"

Angie swallowed tea vacantly, wondering what the best course of action would be. She could easily ask the DA for help right now…except for the fact that the Joker was hiding in her living room, ready to blow some brains out if he heard anything suspicious from the kitchen.

That was as handy an excuse as any. She smiled, shaking her head. "I'm afraid not. I don't really watch the news."

"Okay. I won't bore you with the details, but let me just tell you; there's a terrorist targeting Batman and everyone he believes to be working with him. He calls himself the Joker."

"The Joker?" Nerves were forcing a smile of disbelief onto her face; a tense giggle escaped as the man of the hour poked his head around the doorway with a comically skeptical expression. It took a great effort for Angie to stay calm. "Like…this?" she asked, picking up the card.

Harvey nodded solemnly. "Angie," he said. "You're a nice young woman. I would _hate _for you to get mixed up with…some lowlife like this."

"That might not even be a joker," she argued. "All I see is a J. It could be a jack."

"One hell of a coincidence," he said.

"It was under my welcome mat?" she asked. "I never noticed it. I suppose – he could have left it while I was out sometime. I don't know what a terrorist would want with me, though."

Harvey thought it over. She was right, it was just as likely that the card wasn't a joker, or that it ended up at her door by means other than a theatrical criminal. Or that said theatrical criminal left it there without her knowledge. But why?

"What would a killer clown want with a tailor?" he murmured to himself.

Angie shrugged with a smile. "I don't really know anyone in this town, Mr. Dent, let alone a murderer. I'm hardly gangster girlfriend material."

He laughed. "You're a bit above that, I know," he said. "Listen, there's something else. Not quite as serious as that-"

"And that turned out to be nothing. What else can I help you with?"

"About Jane. I don't suppose you've given any thought to calling her?"

"Of course. You didn't give me _her _number, though." Her lips curled in the suggestion of a smile.

"I know, I'm sorry. The fact is – Bruce Wayne is throwing a fundraiser for me tonight, and Jane is going to be there. Would you come as my guest, to see her?"

Angie was speechless for a moment. At first she smiled, which gave Harvey some hope; then, coming to some sudden realization, her smile faltered. Her gaze moved back to that mysterious point behind him before landing in her tea.

"I, ah…I'm afraid I can't," she said regretfully. "I have nothing to wear…and I wouldn't know anyone there. Jane would probably be busy with her coworkers, right? I'm sorry, I just…"

"Short notice," Harvey admitted. "It's alright. I would love to get to know you, Angie, but – some other time."

He watched her as she seemed to struggle with some awful emotion – her eyes went from the living room and back to him, while she swallowed with difficulty and bit her lip. Finally she took a breath, and smiled with something that looked less like happiness than bravery. She nodded.

"Some other time," she agreed.

"Well," he said after a minute, "I'd better get going if I want to be ready on time." He rose, and she followed. "I'm not up for re-election for another three years, but I guess when Bruce Wayne wants to throw a party, any excuse will do."

She laughed; it was short, and sounded sad. Standing at the door, he thought he saw a film of tears gathering in her eyes.

"Hey." He put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, her amber irises definitely bright with water. "Is everything okay?"

Angie nodded eagerly. "Yeah," she said, "of course. I just…I want to see Jane again. I'm just not ready tonight."

"I understand. I should have mentioned it before." He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "My offer stands, you know. Call me if you need anything."

"That's generous," she said quietly. So quietly, in fact, that he was having trouble hearing her. "Thank-you. I will."

She watched him all the way to his car, several stories below. She hoped against hope that he'd make it through tonight alive; the almost silent approach of the Joker across the floor reminded her that it was possible that he would not.

"Well, that was certainly heartwarming," he said. His voice was low, almost guttural, and unusually soft. "Who's this Jane?"

Angie was silent a moment before answering. "Just an old friend."

"Someone I should be…concerned about?" His cold leather fingers swept her long ponytail off her neck, and by his breath she felt his lips stop just short of her skin. She turned to him, still unsure of how she should feel. With a posse of henchmen at his disposal, Angie had to wonder just what kind of showdown would happen between the two of them. Then again, Jane, with her careful defenses and explosive fighting skill, just might cause this man a problem.

"Only if she ever finds out you exist."

His tongue poked out, sliding along the beginnings of his scars, leaving a jagged smile in its wake. At this distance, his moving lips looked like a talking wound. And still Angie had seen worse.

"We'll see about that," he said.

Her hand shot out, clutching his arm before he could turn away. He stopped, eyebrow raised.

"You'd better not," she said.

The Joker smiled, as jokers do best; she couldn't tell if it was a threat or an agreement. He took her hand off his arm, seizing her by the wrist. She winced as he squeezed, but he only brought her palm to his lips and kissed it. Then, in a sudden, startling move, he pinned her to the door and kissed her on the mouth; no tongue, just lips to lips, old scars to young flesh. She gasped against him.

He broke the kiss off with a smack and backed off immediately. He ran his tongue out again, seeming to lick the taste of her off his lips. His breathing seemed faster than usual, but – Angie dared not hope, yet.

"I've got to go," he said. "Too _bad_ you couldn't make it out tonigh-_t_. You're going to miss a hell of a party." He pushed past her to the door, gently moving her aside as he opened it. "Toodles."

"Wait," she said, but he was already outside. She went after him, stopping on the porch. "Joker-"

He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned back to her. She wanted to tell him to stop, to not hurt anyone else, to drop whatever grudge he had against this Batman because innocent people were getting hurt.

"Don't," she said softly. "Please."

He waited a moment longer, probably wondering if something more profound, or at least more specific, would come from her. He seemed unwilling to disappoint her, somehow; he sucked his teeth thoughtfully. "I can't promise anything, Angel-ca_ke_," he said. Waving to her one last time, he went on down the stairs. She waited until she heard a van door slide shut and wheels spin out of the lot. Then, tightly wound and exhausted all at once, she went back inside. The phone was ringing when she entered.

* * *

Damage…Control, part 3

The wheels of a far-off medication trolley squealed, echoing through the halls of the asylum. Jonathan Crane stood at the public phone set up for certain low-risk patients to use and smiled. The shouts and the clanging and the usual mental hospital sounds were just as he remembered them. He listened to Arkham's music, and felt at home.

Unfortunately, circumstances were not as hospitable as he'd like, and so he had convinced sweet Harleen to let him make a phone call, just one little call, to the outside world. To keep him grounded in reality, he'd suggested; not in so many words, of course – Harleen was a naïve idealist, not an idiot. At first it had been against her better judgment, but charm and past authority soon prevailed. He had ten minutes to make a relatively private call. There were more than a few people he should probably contact, namely George, but he was sure his team was already aware of the situation and he hated to waste a golden opportunity like this.

He dialed zero, and an almost mechanical voice answered. "Adlam residence, please," he said.

"One moment. I have Adlam Tailoring, no Adlam residence. Shall I put you through?"

"Please."

The grating ringer went on for an eternity; he was about to admit defeat when the line was finally answered. "Hello?" Angel said. He would know that voice anywhere.

"Angel," he said. "Please, don't hang up…"

A bewildered moment passed. "Jonnie?" she asked in disbelief.

He paused. "Yes…"

Tense, shuddering breath sounded over the electric space between them. "I thought you were in Arkham…"

"I am, Angel. I wish I had time to chat, but this is more than a social call. I apologize in advance for what I'm going to ask you to do."

"My God…" she gasped. He saw he'd have to move things along if he wanted her to get past this shocked-stupid phase before an orderly came to throw him back into his room.

"Angel, I'm sorry, but I don't have much time. Listen to me; I'm going to be moving through Corridor F around seven in the morning, two days from now. You remember the corridor, don't you?"

"I…I guess. Why – what are you thinking, Dr. Crane?" Her tone was becoming guarded.

He laughed softly. "I must regretfully inform you that I no longer hold that title, Angel. Can you be here at that time? I'll need you to bring a car. Park outside the abandoned brewery to the east of the asylum. Do you understand?"

"Yeah…Ah, Jonnie – I don't have a car. And this isn't really a good time for us to-"

"I wish I had the luxury of putting this off until the timing is better for you, Angie, but I don't." Crane was perilously close to losing his temper; it was something he couldn't afford. He took a breath. "You know what I need, and you know why I'm asking you for it. You _owe _me, remember? This is an easy favor, Angel. After this, you can consider yourself halfway to even with me."

She sighed; even that small sound was both incredibly nostalgic and surprisingly weary. He wondered what she looked like up close these days; still a wild teen, or had she matured in her time with doctors less creative but more sympathetic than himself…?

"Okay," she said quietly. "Half-even. And where am I supposed to get a ride, Jon? Rent-a-Car?"

"Always a joker," he said fondly. "For a car, call this number, tell them- Angel? Hello?" He reached out to press the disconnect button once or twice; _maybe a faulty line,_ he thought. _I'd always meant to have those looked at…_

His hand met roughly starched cotton. Turning, he found the disconnect firmly pressed under the hand of a meaty orderly.

"Phone time's over," he said gruffly. "Time for your room. Come on, Doc."

He sighed, considered bartering with the man; almost all of the old guard still called him Doc, though he doubted it was in the same context of respect that it once was. At the moment, he realized with irritation, he had nothing to offer the man. It seemed Angie would be on her own for the next day or two. If he knew his girl, though, she'd pull through. For him, she always had, even before she'd incurred a double debt on his tab.

_See you in two days, Angel. _

_

* * *

_**So...read and review, everyone! Hope you liked this. Took a while to write, and that would neatly explain why it took so long to update. Although after the three years it took to finish Heart of Glass, I would imagine many are used to this by now. **

**Thanks for stopping by!**

**-nH  
**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_Happiness is a warm gun, mama._

-Happiness is a Warm Gun: _Tori Amos covering The Beatles_

Invincible 

Slender fingers adjusted his tie; he lifted his chin, gazed vacantly at the ceiling as she struggled with the knot, finally smoothing his lapels. He thought of Angie, strangely, for a flash second before glancing back down to his companion. Rachel looked lovely, glamorous and classy. She was never inappropriately dressed, never – dare he say it – overdone. It was one of the many things that made him care so deeply for her; that sense of what was needed in every place, at any time.

"Is Jane on her way?" Harvey asked.

"She's running a bit late," Rachel answered. "She offered to meet us there…"

"Bah," he said, waving a hand. "We can wait. If she's anything like me, walking in there alone isn't going to help her nerves any."

"That's what I said." Rachel wandered in front of the mirror, tucking back hairs that weren't stray; a sign of nervousness. _I'm glad it still gets to her_, he thought. Being best buddies with Bruce Wayne hadn't turned her into a society airhead, even after all these years. "I even told her we'd pick her up," she said, turning from her reflection.

"Good idea," Harvey said. He paused. "Do you remember where she lives?"

"Of course. The car should be pulling up outside right about now…Hey, Harvey?" She stopped him on their way out of the apartment, hand on his arm. "Where were you earlier? I tried calling you. I was afraid you'd run to Mexico to escape this grueling trial tonight."

He laughed. "I went to see Angel Adlam again," he confessed. "I invited her to the fundraiser, to see Jane. I know," he said, imagining protests; Rachel offered none. Slightly thrown, he went on. "It was pretty last-minute, so she said no thanks."

"I'll be looking forward to seeing her and Jane together again. How'd you expect her to get past security, by the way? Was she going to be your date?" Rachel laughed, stopping when she saw the half-guilty look on his face.

"Not _date, _per se. Ow!" He winced when she slapped his arm. "It was just to get her and Jane together. Honest." He stifled a grin while she walked ahead to the elevator; he hoped she wasn't angry, because he couldn't help but laugh. "_You're _my date!"

The doors slid open, and Harvey caught a sneaky smile in her reflection as Rachel stepped inside. "You're going to get it later, Councilor."

"Ooh," he said, following her in.

"Not in a good way."

"Rachel." He took her face in his hands as the doors closed; they were alone, sealed in a moving box for the next thirty seconds. "You have nothing to worry about. I'm just trying to make Angie feel at home with us. Making this transition from being _alone_ to having friends in the DA's office…it's got to be tough. _She's _tough, she's been on her own for so long – she needs to know that no matter how…_defensive_ and _spiky_ she is, there are people who care about her, and friends she can make. I was going to tell you, I just didn't get the chance. Okay?"

She took his hands off her face and held them, smiling like nothing in the world was wrong. "Of course," she said. "I have nothing to worry about. Not from you, anyway." She sighed. "There is a crazy clown killer out there somewhere, and you've effectively taken on the entire mob, but I know, in _here-_" she put her hand over his heart – "it's only me."

"That's right. Now, we have a fundraiser to get through."

Slender fingers slipped into his hand as they walked out the front door to their waiting Lincoln. Sure, he was facing the whole Gotham City crime syndicate, and okay, there was a showy contract killer with Harvey's name and address written on his hand, but with this woman by his side – Harvey felt invincible.

* * *

Sometimes the Clothes Do Make the Man

Before the makeup, before the suit – before the moniker, _Joker_ – he would never have dared do anything like it.

Coiled in the back of the van as it sped through Gotham's streets, the Joker curled his fingers into fists and uncurled them again, feeling the leather creak like old bones in the cold. Lights blurred by like spun gold, shining on the wet pavement; it didn't look clean to him, strangely. It looked cold, ill, unpleasant. Winter coming soon, hot on the heels of his plans for the city. That was fine. A little cold never hurt…well, it never hurt him.

For the first time in a while, he began to wonder if this whole…plan of his, this Joker persona, may be getting out of hand. He'd never taken a step so bold before, not with so new an acquaintance. Angie had a certain quality to her that, he'd bet, made men consider things they would not normally consider – even with that in mind, that move of his had been straight out of left field. It was nice, yeah, he didn't have a problem with women and their charms, but now he was distracted, licking his lips every five seconds instead of every five minutes. His men didn't seem to have noticed. Luckily, as far as gangs were concerned, he had a taste for the obtuse and expendable.

There were times when the uniform truly did make the man. Guys who would never put themselves on the line in their day-to-day lives suddenly became dime-store heroes when they wore their blue suits with gold badges – take the old guy next to him, for example. His heroic days were far behind him, clearly, but in his prime this Weir had been an okay cop. Back before Gotham beat that out of him. Now he was in the back of a speeding van with a known terrorist, having no great qualms with throwing his masked banditos a bone tonight. It should be noted, of course, that his uniform was long gone.

The Joker's plans to set Angie up and watch her fall down suddenly seemed unpalatable; it wasn't what he'd expected when he'd first met her, before he'd ever put on her mother's work of art. At the time, she'd seemed like a blank slate worth scribbling on. Then, when he'd shown his face for the first time, he'd seen just how fragile she really was. Angie wasn't a blank slate, she was a crystal castle – the sound she'd make when she shattered would fill the whole world with sharp, painful music. It would have been beautiful. And while that hasty kiss could easily have been a part of his plan, it hadn't been. That disturbed him. It irritated him. _She _irritated him.

And it excited him; so did she.

So, months after their first meeting and minutes after their first kiss, the question arose as to whose plan he was now working: his, or…? The suit, the damned, beautiful suit and his grotesque face, they seemed to be influencing him. This…this _turning-inside-out_ he'd done, this making the internal _visible _with clothing and makeup (_how adolescent_, he thought, and laughed), it had added an unfamiliarity to him, a depth he'd never seen through. Maybe he was more at home now. Maybe his skin fit better this way, and it was showing in his unplanned actions.

She'd been a little scared when he'd grabbed her, he knew. Her breath had probably warmed his skin when she'd gasped. He couldn't be sure exactly how it felt because it had all gone by so _fast._ His tongue slipped out, but he stopped himself from smudging his red lipstick this time; it could only take so many licks before it faded, and he hardly had time to touch up before the party. He'd already wasted enough time arming himself and his goon squad after leaving Angie's place. The festivities all around town should be well underway; if things went according to plan, this whole '_hope for the future' _thing Gotham had so quickly become used to would be left flying on a wing and a prayer. He felt some kind of unpleasant pang; _ah, those guys were jerks anyway_, he thought. They'd be dead by morning, all of them. Harvey Dent would be his, because he wanted to be absolutely responsible for the destruction of hope in Gotham City. Then, the crystal castle could be pillaged and shattered at his leisure, because _he – would – own – this – town. _

_And every last damned soul in it.

* * *

_

Party Monster

"Harvey Dent, scourge of the underworld, scared _stiff _by the trust fund brigade," Rachel said gleefully as the trio entered Bruce Wayne's penthouse. Jane was taken aback by all the opulence herself; she hung behind the couple, uncomfortable in her new dress. As Rachel spotted someone across the room and swayed across the floor – away from her two terrified companions – Harvey took Jane's arm.

"Don't leave me here, Jane," he hissed in desperation. "It's us against them now."

Jane laughed uncertainly; she was glad to be standing with someone who was as uneasy as she'd surely be all evening. The room was full of debutantes and socialites, people who were more or less polar opposites of what she was herself. She'd never had anything handed to her except the love and support of her family; despite the glamour that filled the room, she was glad to have grown up that way. The way these people carried themselves – she got the feeling that there were things about life that they didn't know, and could never learn. Sometimes privilege could make a person incapable.

"A little liquid courage, Mr. Dent?" a voice asked at Harvey's elbow. Jane turned to see an older gentleman offering flutes of champagne. He dipped his head to her in greeting, holding the tray steady as she took a glass.

"It's Alfred, isn't it?" Harvey said. He indicated Jane with a smile. "This is Jane Savary, one of my most valuable team members."

"Lovely to meet you, Miss Savary," Alfred said. "I've heard a lot of wonderful things about you from Miss Dawes."

"Have you?" she said, surprised. "Thank-you, that's nice."

"You should know, any friend of Miss Dawes' is a friend of Mr. Wayne and myself." He was impeccably gracious. It was nice to see another genuinely friendly face in the sea of vacant, cool-blooded patrons circulating the room.

"You've known Rachel her whole life, right?" Harvey continued to Alfred, surveying the crowd. "Any psychotic ex-boyfriends I should be aware of?"

"Oh, you have _no _idea," Alfred said, laughing as he walked away. Harvey looked unsure of that answer. Jane wasn't sure what to make of it herself.

The roar of a descending engine interrupted any questions that may have arisen; everyone in the room turned to watch an unlikely helicopter set down on what appeared to be a landing pad on the balcony. _Surely that can't be…_

It was. Gotham City's wealthiest bachelor sashayed into the room with a gaggle of scantily clad amazons in tow. Jane glanced at Harvey and saw something like social terror loom in his eyes. As Bruce Wayne greeted his guests as one entity and went on to single her employer out, she felt the need to take a step back. Harvey's hand twitched, as if he were fighting the impulse to reach out and keep her there; she laughed inwardly, glad she wasn't Gotham's DA. Neither of them particularly enjoyed being the focus of the attention of crowds like this one.

Their host continued to accolade Dent and call out Rachel; she appeared from within the crowd with an unmistakable look of disapproval on her face. Now Wayne admitted that _he _believed in Harvey Dent, too. The gathered crowd joined in applause; Jane was glad Harvey was getting the funds and respect he deserved, at least. If you had to make friends in the high places of this town, you could do worse than Bruce Wayne.

"To the face of Gotham's bright future," Wayne said as he raised a glass. "Harvey Dent!"

It wasn't long after Bruce Wayne's speech that Jane found herself wandering alone through the penthouse; Harvey and Rachel had left her out of necessity. The endless champagne was helping her feel a little more at ease, but she knew she couldn't go on drinking forever. She leaned against a broad window, taking in Gotham's lights as they shone like stars below.

"You must be Jane," she heard behind her; turning, she saw her host step toward her, another glass in hand. She accepted it as he offered. "Glad to have you here. I've heard a lot about you; I'm Bruce Wayne." He took her hand with a firm squeeze.

"Oh," she said, surprised. "Thanks, Mr. Wayne. I'm glad to be here." She tried to seem _normal_; he laughed at her nervousness. "It's nice of you to have me."

"Please, call me Bruce. And any friend of Rachel's…" he said, trailing off. Suddenly he smiled. "You probably get that all the time."

"Uh, yeah," Jane admitted. "I'm lucky to have her. I don't even really know why she ever noticed me…"

Bruce touched her arm, bringing her back to the present; Jane hadn't realized that her gaze had wandered for a moment. "You and she have something in common," he said. "Being attacked by Jonathan Crane, getting trapped on the Narrows that night…" Seeing the look on her face, he stopped. "You didn't know she…?

Jane hoped she didn't look as stunned as she felt. All those times she'd wondered if that feeling between them could have been something awful shared in their past…

"She knew you were…wrongly confined for a while, actually," he continued. "She was trying to have you released, but the DA at the time wasn't quite as _straightforward _as the one we have now." Seeing her jaw drop seemed to both worry and amuse him. He tried to reassure her with a pat on the arm. "When she saw how industrious you were in therapy – how quickly you were recovering - she realized what an asset you'd be to team Dent. She wasn't wrong."

She didn't know what to say. Her mouth opened, and nothing came out but air. Her champagne glass was, for the moment, forgotten; Bruce took it from her before it could fall from her hand, setting it on a nearby table. "She was in the support group with you, Jane; you don't remember?"

Mutely, she shook her head. "I'm…sorry," she managed. "Maybe the medication…" He nodded sympathetically.

"You have nothing to apologize for. Now that Crane's back in Arkham, you shouldn't have anything to worry about. But if you ever do need anything – anything at all, and I mean it – please don't hesitate to get in touch. My door is always open."

She should have been comforted, but somehow Jane felt even more lost than before. Finding out that she really had known Rachel was a shock; she guessed she was having trouble digesting it. As soon as it settled, Bruce Wayne's offer of friendship would hit her and she'd be gleeful and giddy, like anyone else would be.

"I'm sorry to hand all this to you at once," Bruce said. He stopped suddenly, reaching absently into his jacket and producing a humming cell phone. Seeing the number, he frowned so slightly that if Jane hadn't been studying him she wouldn't have noticed. It struck her that he wasn't like everyone else here; wealthy, yes. Wealthiest, in fact, but not _incapable_. There was something about him that was deeper than the others, like he did know what life was like. She guessed he had secrets; something else the three of them – Jane, Rachel, and Bruce – shared.

"Please excuse me, Jane – I have to take this." He glanced around uneasily. "Ah, stay here, if you could." At her lifted eyebrows, his boyish billionaire smile surfaced and he rolled his eyes. "Some kind of security breach. I just don't want you running off while my guards are doing their rounds; they might misunderstand." He squeezed her arm one last time and darted off through the crowd.

Still numb from the discovery, Jane scanned the room for Rachel and Harvey; they weren't immediately visible, but she supposed they could be somewhere in the throng of tuxedos and evening gowns. She took her glass from the table as she passed, threading her way into the mass of people. She was just past the private elevator when she heard a commotion behind her.

"We made it," a new voice said. It was nasal, abrasive; she turned to see who among these well-bred people would invite someone so obviously uncultured. She saw an older man with a badge in hand stumble into the room, followed by a group of miscellaneous clowns. No one in the immediate area seemed to know them, judging from the sea of slack-jawed expressions.

A shotgun blast was fired into the air, drawing screams from startled revelers. "Good evening, ladies and gentleman," the leader – and only one not wearing a rubber mask – said with a flourish. Jane was agape as she spotted the guns in all their hands. "We are tonight's _en-ter-tainment_. I only have one question." He paused to survey the room, gun held at a ready angle. His eyes swept over her; she shivered.

_I didn't think he was real,_ she thought. It was true that she had a habit of avoiding the news since her own brush with notoriety; even considering that, she'd assumed the Joker was an urban legend. Not so, apparently. He was made up like a gruesome circus clown, red mouth and stark white face paint moving in an unreal way as he spoke. The eyes were skeletal hollows piled with black grease; as he took a shrimp skewer from the canapé stand and chewed it, his actions took on a fictional, silent-film quality. He looked like a stop-motion character, made out of clay and blood. Finally, as if he knew who she was, his frightening gaze settled on her.

"Where – is – _Harvey - Dent_."

Jane blinked uncertainly, sure he was talking directly to her. An immense sense of relief swept through her as he continued his meandering walk through the room, taking his eyes off her. He drank champagne from someone's glass, let it fall to the floor. This man was an intimidator; _how brave would you be without your cronies and your makeup? _Jane wondered angrily. She took an ill-advised step forward, something in her still willing to fight strangers to prove her capability. One of the man's underlings stepped into her path, brandishing his gun with a warning look in the eyes behind his mask. Jane came back to herself, wondered what had almost gotten into her.

"Y'know," the ring leader said with an accommodating air, "I'll settle for his loved ones."

"We're not intimidated by _thugs!_" an older guest spat, standing upright with his sense of entitlement. _Does he think culture and bravado will save him?_

The Joker stopped, looked closer, peered into the man's face. "You know," he said thoughtfully, still chewing food from other people's napkins, "you remind me of my father." In a violent flash, his hands were gripping the older man's jaw, a sudden knife held tightly against his now trembling cheek. Jane tensed; she had the ability to take him, _she knew it. _If she didn't do something…it was her duty, wasn't it? Those who have the ability _must _help, mustn't they? Wasn't that what Harvey Dent and Batman stood for?

"I _hated _my father," the Joker said passionately, tightening his entire being in preparation of a fatal cut. Jane stepped forward again, watchful eye on the thug who'd stopped her a moment ago; he was busy staring down another frightened young woman. The first thing she'd do was throw down her glass, get his attention…

"Okay, _stop._" Jane did stop, but the voice wasn't talking to her. Everyone turned to look, past Jane, to the end of the room where another brave lady stood in silence. Arms crossed, face stern and set; Rachel Dawes had beat Jane to the punch.

* * *

Party Monster 2

The painted man let go of his captive, thoughts of his hated father forgotten for the moment. He stepped toward Rachel, smoothing his hair like a cartoonish suitor.

"Well, hel-_lo_ beautiful," he said.

Rachel chilled as she heard that quality in his voice, that lilt men saved for days when they wanted to scare women with their attraction. She spotted Jane standing between them like a child caught in crossfire; gray eyes darkening, the young woman stepped forward to intercept him, only to be stopped once more by his thug. Rachel had seen her move into the line of fire a moment ago and be halted by the armed clown. This time he wasn't just warning; he shoved her back with the butt of his gun. Unprepared, she stumbled into a refreshment table. Glasses toppled and shattered, but the Joker didn't break his stride. Didn't even flinch, really. The thug stayed on Jane now, guarding her with his weapon.

"You must be Harvey's squ-_eeze_," the Joker continued. He circled her like a vulture; Jane heard an electric whine in her ears. Like all the times Crane had spoken to her with similar sentiments, however more vulgar this man may be – it had made her head hurt every time. Still did.

"And you are _beautiful_…" his voice deepened, like an animal. Rachel squirmed, tried to look nonchalant as he moved in to smell the air around her. She saw Jane shaking like a leaf in the background, but it wasn't terror on her face; the juxtaposition of anger and trembling nearly distracted Rachel from the madman cornering her now. She forced herself to ignore her, to focus on the Joker with the austerity of courage in her features. Coming back to face her, he saw her bravery and smiled cruelly.

"You look nervous," he said, feigning concern. "Is it the scars? You wanna know how I got 'em? Here-" he lashed out again, took her face in his hands; Rachel tried to jump back, but he won. _"Look at me."_ His knife pressed into her cheek, puffing up soft skin. Jane looked at her guard; he wasn't letting her out of his sight now.

"See, I had a wife once...and she was _beautiful – _like you. Who tells me – I _worry _too much. Who tells me I ougtta _smile _more. Who gambles, and gets in _deep _with the sharks. _Hey-_" he steadied Rachel as she struggled, trying not to look at him. He was frightening that close, like a feral animal; blood red mouth smiling ear to ear, even when he was growling in rage.

He's a mad dog, she thought, off his leash. Inhumanity in the form of a man wasn't something she could look in the eye; wildly, she thought of all the times Jane had looked madness in the face with Dr. Crane, and shuddered. The Joker mistook it for a reaction to him and shook her a little until she managed to meet his eyes. From this angle, she could no longer see Jane; she said an inward prayer for the girl's safety.

"One day they carve her face," the Joker continued, sounding very serious and almost _normal_. "And we got no money for surgeries – she can't _take it._ And I just want to see her smile again, _hm? _I just want her to know I don't _care _about the _scars-" _

The Joker's voice trembled here – whether with emotion or simply affectation, the result was unsettling. Rachel couldn't decide between pity and disgust; across the room, Jane was frozen in place, listening for the whispers meant only for Rachel's ears. She wasn't sure what he'd just said, but he sounded upset. _Some people go crazy for a reason,_ she thought.

"So," he went on, seeming to brighten. "I stick a razor in my mouth, and do _this-"_ his tongue slipped out, tracing along the scars as far as it could reach before slithering back into his mouth- "to myself. And you know what? She can't stand the sight of me." He sounded close to tears. "She _leaves…_Now I see the funny side. Now, I'm always _smiling…"_

As his hands left Rachel's face to gesture grandly, she took the opportunity to drive a fist into his gut; he reacted with an _ooff_, stumbling backward but recovering soon enough. He laughed, admonishing her with gestures from the knife. "A _little _fight in you. I like that."

"Then you're going to love me," a new voice growled next to Rachel's ear. From the corner of her eye she saw black, a towering column of muscle and armor. The Joker turned, a reflex, for a split second having no idea what force was about to throw him off his pedestal. Batman taught him that force's name with a crushing blow to the torso; then, the Joker knew.

Jane stepped away from the table in the confusion, snatching the gun from her clown in a moment of reckless courage. She spun it in her hands and drove the stock into his face; she heard a cry and an expletive from under the mask. Shaking his head like a dog, he lunged at her blindly. Jane tossed the gun to the floor behind her and snapped her arm forward, her fist catching him sharply in the nose. Blood spurted out of the breathing holes in the rubber mask. Now he cried out in anger and pain, ready to attempt to teach this girl a lesson. He was saved from further embarrassment when his boss leapt at him, grabbing his sleeve and propelling him into the Batman-clown-posse fray. It was such a surreal moment, Jane almost laughed. The clown in purple appeared to have missed her actions completely; he didn't give her a second glance, turning back to the black tornado and jumping back into the chaos.

Rachel suddenly appeared at Jane's side. She glanced at the blood on Jane's knuckles; Jane smiled nervously. As her eyes widened, Rachel heard breathless laughter at her back; then there was a thick arm around her neck and a cold square of metal at her temple. She watched Jane take a step toward her as the Joker dragged her back; _'don't',_ she mouthed, and the girl stopped uncertainly. The Joker spun her roughly to face the Batman while he raised his gun above their heads.

"Drop the gun," Batman commanded, frozen in a sea of broken clowns.

"Oh, sure," the painted man said breezily. "You just take of your little mask and show us all who you really are."

Rachel locked eyes with Batman, shaking her head clearly and seriously; the man with the gun didn't notice, but Jane did. She wondered if that meant more than just a concerned ADA trying to keep a hero's identity secret. Her captor gestured haphazardly with his weapon, firing a spurt of rounds into the massive window at their backs. Glass shattered, fell like rain. As the cold fall air rushed in, he dragged Rachel backward and threw her over the edge, dangling her over Gotham City by her wrist. She stopped struggling, afraid he'd lose his grip.

"Let her go," Batman growled.

The Joker couldn't believe his luck. "Very poor choice of words," he said critically, before doing as he'd been told with a cackle of joy.

Without hesitation, Batman lunged after her. The Joker watched him soar past incredulously; jaw agape, he followed his black form as it descended, leaving a room full of trust fund party-goers with a handful of armed madmen. Jane blinked at that too, wondering if Wayne's security detail would be arriving any time soon.

_Rachel, _she thought, and stepped toward the window. She stopped herself, seeing the purple clown still lingering there. _The moment he turns his back…_

Still laughing gleefully, the Joker turned from the window now and addressed the room. "So, about Mr. Den-_t_…?"

The clowns who were lucky enough to still be conscious dragged themselves out of their pile and wandered back to his side. Jane could see the worship they retained for their master; he'd thrown them right at a vigilante madman, and the ones who survived crawled back to him for more. He swaggered through the room, confident, but probably losing hope of finding Dent here.

"Ah, you're no _fun_," he said finally, lowering his gun. He made to leave the room, but catching sight of Jane, he stopped.

_Maybe he saw me after all,_ she thought. She held her ground as he approached with that look of cruel curiousity; he raised an eyebrow as he turned to look at his bleeding posse, particularly the member she was responsible for.

"_W-hat _do we have here?" he said, unable to contain his laughter. "What's a _nice young girl like you…_oh, if I had a penny for every time I asked _tha-t._" He stopped, thinking; finally he turned again to his gang and gestured to her. "Grab her."

With the exception of the guy she'd already introduced herself to, they moved to her without hesitation. She caught the look on the Joker's face as she prepared herself; he was undeniably amused. He didn't know what was going to happen, but however it turned out, the carnage would be _funny_.

There were only three men to deal with – aside from the Joker, who watched giggling from the sidelines – now that the Batman had had his way. Good news for Jane; she'd never had to defend herself from more than two before. As they surrounded her, one advanced with a knife drawn; when he lunged, she disarmed him easily with a twist of her wrist, spinning him in a cartilage-crunching move that left him on the ground, cradling his dislocated elbow. It was lucky for Jane that the two remaining had gawked in wonder while she did that; when they came at her, she took one out with a simple fist to the throat, dropping the other without breaking a sweat. Even she was amazed at her ease in this; perhaps Batman had softened them up for her.

Then again, maybe she'd always been better than she realized.

The Joker's shrill laughter rang in her ears. He sounded like he was having trouble breathing as he stumbled toward her, gun in hand. She tensed. He was unpredictable, not like his little armed buffoons. She wasn't sure if she could take him while he was in a manic episode like this.

"You," he laughed, wheezing with the effort, "you are one _hell _of a little rich girl, aren't ya?" He took a moment to wind down. "Ah…what's your name, sweet thing? Hm?"

His gun came up to caress her cheek; now she was breathing hard. Her heart pattered in her chest like a tiny bird, frail brittle beats in a staccato rhythm against flesh and bone. He nodded encouragingly as she hesitated, afraid.

"Jane," she said finally, defeated once again by fear. In rebellion against this, she went on in a tone probably not suitable for the situation. "What's yours?"

"_Jane…?" _The Joker drew the name out thoughtfully, and was quiet afterward for a long moment. Then he lifted his eyebrows suggestively, entertained by her gall. "Don't catch the news much, Janie? Here-" with startling speed, he caught her wrist in his free hand; letting the gun fall, he reached into an inner jacket pocket. Jane tried to pull away, but he held fast with a sharp look. "_Don't_, don't do that. Don't _worry, _Jane! I just…want…to leave you with my _card."_ He pressed a cool square of laminated cardboard into her palm, closing her fingers around it. Her arm snapped back against her chest when he finally let her go; she stepped back, off-balance. He backed away from her now, hands up as if he was surrendering.

Jane didn't take her eyes off him; through the gaping window, she could hear sirens approach. No one in the room made any move to stop the Joker as he turned and fled the way he'd entered. Jane would have thought them all cowards, if not for the fact that she'd just let him get away herself.

Finally she broke her gaze away from the spot he'd been occupying to look down at her hands. They were bloody, most of it not her own. Prying her aching fingers back, she stared at the card in her palm. _What a sense of humor,_ she thought. She held a joker in the form of a two-headed devil. Jane couldn't think of a damn thing more appropriate for him than that.

* * *

**Longest chapter yet! I hope you enjoyed the subtle finagling of Jane into a scene in which she does not actually appear, being that she is my OC and not in movies, really. I tried to be gentle. She had to meet the Joker, y'know? **

**Thanks for reading, and please do review!**

**-nH  
**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_I escape every now and then_

_And to think I find myself back here again…_

_And again_

_I used to know who I was _

_Until you came along_

_-_Nine Inch Nails: _Home_

Looking Glass

"This is unhealthy," Angie said in a whisper.

He nodded slowly, thumbs pressing circles into her neck muscles; an oddly soothing feeling from such a…such a man. "For who?" he asked, after a mirthful chuckle.

She swallowed, feeling the pressure he exerted on her throat increase at the motion. He eased off accordingly.

"For me." _Obviously. _

Now he laughed openly, coming around to stand beside her at the sink. She'd been washing dishes when he'd let himself in; she'd almost managed not to jump when he put his hands on her shoulders from behind. He had a strangely silent way about him, for all the loud, raucous statements his very being seemed to make.

"Is that the kind of thing they told you, at your…_place?"_ Joker asked. His eyebrows made suggestive gestures, but she still didn't know what he was referring to.

"What _place?"_

"The place all little girls - go, to, ah..." his hands swept the air between them, grazing her arm. "You know. To _heal._ The _Well-Woo_d_."_

"Wellwood?" she asked. She turned to face him. "How did you know about Wellwood?"

Joker shrugged nonchalantly. "I have ways. And means. _Sources._"

"About me?"

"About all _sorts _of thing-_s."_

"Who was your source?" Angie was more forceful than she'd intended; it was careless of her. She had a feeling about what might have happened last night, at the fundraiser. She wondered if things might have gone differently if she _had _gone with Harvey to see Jane. However, she didn't back down. This man was full of mystery; whatever offense he may take from her tone, relenting now would be showing weakness to a wolf.

"You know," he started, then closed his mouth abruptly. He thought a second, then went on. "Y'know, Angie…_Angel_. I thought I recognized the name. Of course, you have to know your mother spoke about you. Her _on_-ly daughter…when I read the obituary, I didn't _really _make the connection. Un-_til _I met you. _Then, _I knew."

It was a disjointed explanation, but an explanation all the same. "So, my mother told you?"

He nodded, almost somber. "More than a _few _things."

"Like what?" she asked, but the Joker was already shaking his head, moving closer.

"You don't _really _want to talk about that, do you? Hmm?" He slid to her, invaded her space; soon he was bent almost at the waist to meet her shorter height, their heads together…like last night. She closed her eyes – like last night – and tried to slow her heartbeat. His hands moved over her arms, and she thought she couldn't believe such gentleness could come from a criminal like him. Then his grip hardened, squeezing tight. Proving that disbelief right.

"I do…" she said. Her voice was weak. She cleared her throat. That heart of hers wasn't in any mood to cooperate. "Tell me what else," she went on, valiantly struggling against the weight his presence put on her rational thoughts. Still, she hadn't opened her eyes, and she felt his breath on her face once more.

"Later," he breathed. He licked his lips; she felt the coolness graze her own face, but he made no apologies. "Right now…_tell _me to stop, Angie. _If you want me to._"

The blood in her veins was threatening to pulse right out of her pores with the force of her pounding heart. She breathed, and it sounded like shuddering. He was incredibly close now; the sounds he made were more like noise, rushing in her ears with his breath, his movements, even the creaking of his leather gloves. She wondered in a spark of clarity why he'd dropped by today. Then, clarity dissolved once again.

"Will you…?" she asked.

Her hands, dripping wet against his coat; she didn't care, and neither did he. Pressing into her, not a sliver of space between them now. _He kissed me last night, why doesn't he again? _she wondered.

_That was different, Angel. That wasn't a kiss. Not like this could be._

"Are you ask-ing me to?" Nothing they said was above a whisper now; he was puffing heated words into her open mouth. They exchanged strained breaths, and still their lips didn't touch one another's. Without waiting for an answer, Joker grabbed her by the waist, crushing her into him and off the ground. Startled, her instinct was to struggle, but the angle was all wrong for resistance. He turned with her in his arms and dropped her on the kitchen table; glass and metal jangled in panic as she fell on her back. What felt like a fork dug painfully into her flesh, and Joker hovered a moment above her, his face unreadable, almost unhappy. When he erased the distance between them, she could feel every inch of him, bruising her.

Angie had inherited the table from her mother's shop; _good thing it's sturdy_. The Joker's weight was all over her now. Her hips jumped under him; he answered in kind, and a noise escaped her throat. She wasn't currently in control of herself, she realized. The thought took her to somewhere between giddiness and dismay. She felt him, his hardness, harsh like a weapon against her softest parts. It almost hurt when he pushed himself onto her, but it didn't stop her from pushing back. The only thing between them then was a few layers of cloth; the grinding proximity almost negated even that.

And then, with startling speed, rational thought returned. It was like waking up to find one's self perilously close to a fire; Angie remembered what it was to get burned. This thing between them was blazing out of control, too fast. With great effort, she stopped her movements under him.

"Stop," she gasped. "Sorry…please, Joker. I'm…asking."

He did stop, for a moment, looking down into her face; eyes half-closed, her lips red and cheeks flushed. "_That_'s the ma-_gic _wor-_d,_" he said, smacking his lips. His voice was deeper now, dangerously so; it made Angie think of darkness. _Where have I heard that voice before? _He pushed against her again; though her eyes widened, she wasn't completely shocked. Annoyed, she struggled to push him off and was genuinely surprised to find him unmoving.

"Joker," she tried again.

"Go on," he encouraged. His movements weren't so driven now – he was deliberate and measured. She had been to this place, this state of momentary terror and disbelief, once before – Angie regained her senses with the speed of necessity. The Joker was playing with her, as usual, and he wouldn't stop until she stopped him. It was a damn good thing she'd been fully clothed when he came in.

She groaned, and squirmed beneath him; this had gone sour pretty fast. "Please," she said, before managing enough leverage in her left arm to slap him. It was weak, but would have been better than nothing on anyone else. The Joker was amused; judging from the swelling against her, it excited him, too. "Get off me!" she ground out between clenched teeth, struggling anew, her arms a flurry between them.

He overcame her easily. It was a poor angle to be stuck in during a fight. His strong hands pinned her down, one locked around her jaw. He pressed into her again. This time she knew it was a jab, an insult. He was still hard, but he wasn't going to use it now; too much risk of injury, here. Too much effort to remove her clothing.

As if to illustrate this unspoken point, he shook her head in his hand. "_You. Can't. Trust. Me. _Or anyone, really." His tone lightened, and he finally lifted his heavy arousal from her. His breath was still quick, but he retained control of himself. Indeed, she doubted if he'd ever lost it. More than she could say for herself, she noted shakily. "What did you need?"

"I need you to get off me," she said carefully. He laughed. A flash of anger shook her insides, but it passed as he rose from the table, letting her scamper away from him.

"No, no. That's not what you _need…"_ his eyes flickered down her body, before some change overtook him. His smile died, and he shook his head, sweeping a hand through his hair. No laughter this time. When he spoke next, he avoided her eyes; it looked casual, but Angie could tell – something was different now.

"You, ah, _needed _some-thing. Some favor, you mentioned it when I came in. Before we got all started on the _Well-wood _and your _mother…_what was it?"

Angie shook her head, confused, throat dry. "Oh," she said suddenly. "A car."

"Oh? What for?"

"None of your goddamn business."

Joker laughed; it sounded tense, but with him it was hard to tell. "One could argue, Angel, that if I'm to pro-_vide_ a car to you I should have the, uh, _pri_vilege of knowing what you plan to do with i_t_."

"Fine." The heat was cooling in her cheeks now, and it left her trembling and angry. She felt so vulnerable to him, but still – the way he was acting now…she wondered despite herself if he would have stopped for anyone else. Unaware of her scrutiny, he made a questioning gesture.

"My old psychiatrist is breaking out of Arkham and I need to pick him up at the brewery across the street."

"Hmm," he said. That seemed to shake that strange mood from his features. "When is this?"

"Tomorrow."

"Ah…" he risked a look at her face. It didn't last long before his eyes searched the apartment for some other, safe focal point. _One without guilt_, she thought. "I can't, ah, _tell_ if you're joking or no-_t. _But, okay. I'll leave some-thing…in the parking lot. I'll make _sure _you know it's yours."

"I'll only need it for a day."

"Good, that's all you're getting." He straightened his jacket; somehow, his pants didn't seem to need it, if her surreptitious glance could judge. "I'd go with you, but I've got some plans to see through."

"That's fine." _The last thing I need is the two of you getting together._ "Thank-you, Joker."

"You are welcome, Angel-fish." His formal tone matched hers. He sucked his bottom lip thoughtfully. "What's that guy's name, again?"

"I never told you. Jonathan Crane."

"Ah," he said, like a light had turned on in his head. "Good-old…_Crane._"

Angie was certain he couldn't have met him; still, the thought of them working as a team gave her chills. "You don't…_know _him, do you?"

Joker gave her an indiscernible look; it gave her the idea that he was trying to gauge her feelings toward such a thing. "He…ah, he _ran_ the asy-lum," he said simply. Angie was aware that he hadn't answered the question; she could probably get it out of Jonnie, anyway. She hoped. She nodded thoughtfully.

The Joker watched her steadily, now over whatever awkwardness had prevented him from making eye contact a few minutes ago. Angie wondered why he would do a favor like this for her after an…_incident_ like that.

"So…" The Joker was back to casual, sauntering to her refrigerator like he hadn't just had her pinned to the table. He tapped the door with his fingers absently, glancing at the few generic magnets holding pattern pieces and bills in place. "Busy to-_mo_rrow, I assume?"

"Probably. Why?"

"Thought I might stop by. See…how you're doing."

Now that her heart had stopped pumping at such a breakneck speed, she was left with a healthy dose of annoyance. "I'm sure I'll be fine," she said, realizing it might not be true. Seeing Jonnie Crane might break her heart again, but she wondered what the Joker's comfort would cost her. Probably best to keep them _far_ apart.

"Al-right." The Joker left her fridge and moved to the door; he kept his distance from her as he passed. "By the way…do me a favor and stay _out _of down-town Wednesday afternoo_n_. 'Kay?" He turned to look at her, black eyes sincere as a puppy's.

Angie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Sure."

"Next time I'm here I'll try and, ah, _con-trol _myself," he laughed.

"What?" she snapped, incensed at his gall. The door swung shut behind him as he turned his back, and he made no move to answer. He was probably halfway down the stairs by the time she got the nerve to say it out loud.

"Don't come back here," she whispered.

_Who are you kidding, sweetheart? You don't want him to stay away._

It was too late, anyway. He was already gone.

* * *

Nightmares

_There was a monster lurching through the rubble of the mansion on the hill. A giant of burlap, twelve feet tall, the bulbous head of a pumpkin wrapped in rough tattered fabric. Nothing about it was human. In the black torn-out eyes, nothing. Emptiness. In the gaping, wide-slit mouth, fire and blood. She knew this shape as Scarecrow._

_Chasing this demon was a shadow, a darkness-draped man with a hidden face. He moved fast, and the Scarecrow hadn't seen him. Heavy stone blocks overturned in the monster's wake, and the dark man made his way over them with the grace of a cat. When he finally entered the scant light thrown by a waning moon, she saw his face; the girl jumped, startled. The head of a bat. Another monstrosity, but this one wasn't evil. It was just a feeling she had. _

_When the darkness-cloaked Bat caught up with the enormous Scarecrow, a horrific roar tore the night in two. The jagged ruins of the house crumbled further. In her dream, the girl covered her ears; that fiery maw was huge now, and growing. The monster fought, but the shadow won, and the fire inside the terror's mouth was snuffed to embers. The shadow rested, and his home seemed to sigh on its foundations. He was brushing dust lovingly off a cornerstone when the cackle came over the black hills from all directions. The shadow stood, bat ears stark against the pale moon. That laughter went on, grew louder, and underneath the obvious notes she could hear the creaking of old wood and that awful, shrill noise you get when you're terrified. The light of the moon grew until it blotted out everything else, and she was left with nothing but blinding white and the screech of fear. _

Jane opened her eyes to a day without sunshine. For the first time in recent memory, there was nothing bright to burn away the nightmares of the last six hours; less than six, actually, if one considered all the time spent talking to the police after the Joker left Harvey's fundraiser. She'd known it would be a late night, but honestly – if Bruce Wayne's parties always ended in a house fire or hostage situation, she might sit the next one out.

Thankfully, Harvey had been found alive and confused in the kitchen of the penthouse, and she supposed she had Batman to thank for the fact that the clown gang hadn't had time to search the place thoroughly before someone was thrown out of a window. Rachel was unharmed, too, miraculously. The Batman had risked his life and limb to save hers. Considering the strange look that had passed between them, Jane wasn't surprised.

_Maybe he has a crush on her,_ she thought. She was kidding herself, of course. Whoever Batman really was, she doubted he'd be a very successful hero if he let his feelings dictate a big decision like _should I hurl myself out of a high-rise or not? _

Speaking of feelings, just about every man in Rachel and Jane's life had had some harsh words regarding their behavior during the incident. Jane was aware that if she'd been a young man instead of a young woman, those conversations would have gone quite differently. She and Rachel had shared some eye-rolls at the patronizing lectures from the police, the conspicuously late security team, and Harvey. The only big men not talking down to the two of them that night were Bruce Wayne and Lieutenant Gordon. Bruce had seemed somewhat shell-shocked, and Gordon had just come from his own eventful evening; neither were in any mood to waste their energy annoying the only proactive people in the room.

Jane had found Rachel during a lull in the interviews, shivering on a chair under a blanket. She looked shell-shocked too; of course, she'd just been tossed out of a window by a mob clown, so it was understandable. Rachel had given her a tense smile as she seated herself at her side.

"So, I hear you're the new Batman," Rachel said through chattering teeth.

Jane laughed, modestly. "It was nothing," she said. "It was easy. I was just kicking around the pieces the real Batman left behind."

"Still. Sorry I wasn't around to see it. Must have been…satisfying."

Jane looked at her then, lips blue, hair ruined by the wind of falling a few dozen stories. Rachel had a look about her that reminded her of Angie, the night of the riot; leg shattered, like her life had been shattered earlier that night. Shaking violently under an ambulance blanket, paramedics and policemen wagging their fingers in disapproval of their actions. As if any of them could have done anything different. They weren't like Gotham's criminals, making every decision based on how much pain they could inflict, or how much power they could gain; when you decide to do good in your life, you find that when the time comes you really have no choice at all.

"Not nearly satisfying enough," she said.

Later, she'd seen Gordon at the gaping window, staring out over the city with an expression like it was burning down before his eyes. He looked tired. She remembered him from the riot, too; he'd been the first friendly face she and Angie had seen in…well, months, really. He had arrived shortly after the ambulance in his own car, and had gone with them to the hospital. At the time, Jane had been terrified of Arkham. The great cast iron gates loomed in her memory, as fresh as a new trauma, and she'd been sure she and Angie were about to be swallowed whole by the asylum again. Jim Gordon had stayed with them through their admission to Gotham General, until both girls were safely wrapped up in sleep. Whatever Gotham was coming to now, she'd always associate Gordon with safety.

When she stood beside him above the city, he said, "I want to send an officer home with you tonight."

Jane was silent a moment. She was reluctant to give up her privacy, but she knew she couldn't argue with his logic. "Okay," she said.

"Problem is," he continued, "I don't know which officers I can trust."

And so Jane had spent the night in one of Wayne's more subtle hotels downtown; she shared a floor of four suites with Bruce, Rachel and Harvey. After the night they'd had, none of them wanted to be out of earshot of Bruce's well-screened security team.

The relative safety of the hotel wasn't enough to keep the nightmares away, though. Last night's scant sleep had produced dreams the like of which she hadn't seen in a long time. She was pretty sure she could figure out the significance of the last one, though; it worried her, the thought that when one monster was defeated, another would always be ready to take its place. This new guy looked like a joke, and it somehow made him far more serious. If this was the mob's new attack dog, Jane wondered if Harvey's willingness to take them on might soon disappear.

A sudden knock on her door nearly stopped her heart. She tried to calm herself with the memory of Bruce telling her that no one, aside from the four of them, would have access to this floor. Then again, last night's party was supposed to be invitation-only, too. It didn't help her nerves any to think that his security team may have conveniently disappeared again.

"Jane?" The voice was muffled through the door, maddeningly unidentifiable.

"Coming," she said, wrapping herself in a robe. She peered cautiously through the peephole; with relief, she realized it was Harvey. She found him dressed and ready for work, to her surprise.

"Morning," he said cheerily, handing her a Styrofoam cup of coffee. "Before you protest, let me assure you, I have no expectation that you or Rachel will be coming in to the office. In fact, it is my explicit order that you both take the day off. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not going anywhere. Let the mob send in their worst clowns."

"Okay," she said, smiling. "I'm…happy to hear that."

"And frankly," he said, leaning in, "last night's clown was terrible. I didn't laugh once."

Jane's cheeks hurt; she suddenly realized she was beaming. She laughed, looking away; there were times when he was too bright to look at. "Me neither."

"Also, Jane…if you don't feel safe, you are completely free to leave this office until this case is over with. You'll always be welcome back, but no one will blame you for sitting this one out."

She shook her head. "I've seen worse," she said. "I'm not going anywhere, either."

"I know you have," he said, quietly. Then he smiled; it was the first shot of sunlight she'd seen all morning. "And I'm glad to hear you'll be staying. The more Gotham sees good people stand up to these criminals, the better. Now, I've got to go-"

"Court's still on?"

"Yeah, of course. I've got to get Lau tied up in Kevlar, before some other costumed sniper ruins my day."

_How many people died last night?_ she wondered. "Be careful."

"Always am," he said. "Listen, the funeral…"

"I'll be there."

"Let's just see how today goes," he said. "I'll see you later, Jane." He stopped, squeezed her hand in his for a moment. "Thank-you. You're an incredibly brave person."

He was gone before she had a chance to reply; she didn't feel like a particularly brave person most days, but when she did, she was sure it came from working with him. Gotham could be a brave city, when given the chance.

"You too," she said to no one. Thinking of the days ahead, she could only hope that bravery would be enough.

* * *

Watch the World Burn

"_Eighth at Orchard. You'll find Harvey Dent there." _

Far above the city, a lonely man in a dark suit perched on the edge of a skyscraper; the ghostly scratches of errant radio signals burned in his earpiece. The ether was full of voices tonight.

Hours ago, Bruce Wayne had stood in his underground hideout, watching the man he'd so easily dismissed as an attention-seeker commit murder on tape. This was madness. It was unnecessary, frivolously violent. This garish killer had taken the game too far.

"Targeting me won't get their money back," he'd said to Alfred. "I knew the mob wouldn't go down without a fight, but this is different. They've crossed a line."

"You crossed it first, sir," Alfred answered, carefully ignoring the monitors at his back. "You've hammered them, squeezed them to the point of desperation. And now, in their desperation, they've turned to a man they don't fully understand."

"Criminals aren't complicated, Alfred." His armor stood ready behind him as Alfred watched him prepare. "We just have to figure out what he's after."

Alfred had gone on to make a suggestion that Bruce hadn't liked one bit. The idea that he'd been wrong about this guy with the makeup had occurred to him more than once last night, but the concept of him not understanding him at all…that went further, deeper than had seemed possible yesterday. It was as chilling as it was infuriating.

Now, Batman was suspended over Gotham in the haze of a cold, breaking dawn. Up this high, where he felt most useful and least restless, the streets almost glowed; this was the time of waking. Most days it meant opportunity, another 24 hours to make things better. Today, though, would be different. The aching in his bones told him how much of Gotham's hope had been destroyed a night ago. Today, he knew, things would have to get better just to break even. The madness of this clown would have to be nipped, before it killed everything Batman had worked so hard to create. So he waited, listening to the empty voices, looking for a sign from the city.

A moment ago one voice had cleared the clutter of calls flowing back and forth through the air.

"_Eighth at Orchard. You'll find Harvey Dent there."_

The building at the corner of Eighth and Orchard was a derelict tenement. Squad cars squealed to a halt out front, detectives and uniforms swarming the steps up to the open door at the top of the stairs. Batman watched them enter from the corner, saw them take in the two dead men sitting at the table with cards fanned in their grips; all jokers. Losing hands.

Their names were Patrick Harvey and Richard Dent. A message written in blood, for everyone's eyes. To say that he had a bad feeling about it would be a colossal understatement.

It takes a special kind of criminal to be so open about his intentions. Batman saw the trepidation in Gordon's eyes as he gathered his evidence; it was almost as if time was running out for everyone in the city. After a year of consistent success, maybe the Batman had finally met his match. Someone without greed, lacking avarice. If his goal was so mysterious, his limits might be unknowable too.

_Some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money, _Alfred had said. The possibility had chilled him to the bone and driven him out to the rooftops with a new sense of urgency. Some men, he was coming to realize, had no motive more complex than evil.

_Some men just want to watch the world burn. _

_

* * *

_

**Thanks all for reading, and please do review! Also, check out a story I'm beta-ing called "Here and There", about the rise of Catwoman in Nolan's Gotham. I don't remember if I've mentioned that before, but it's a cool fic. And song suggestions are always welcome.**

**-nH**


End file.
